Classic Poem

Hay! hay! by this day,
What availeth it me though I say, nay?

I wold fain be a clarke,
But yet it is a strange werke:
The birchen twigges be so sharpe,
It maketh me have a faint harte.
What availeth it me though I say, nay?

On Monday in the morning whan I shall rise,
At six of the clok, it is the gise
To go to skole without avise--
I had lever go twenty mile twise.
What availeth it me though I say, nay?

My master loketh as he were madde:
"Wher hast thou be, thou sory ladde?'
"Milked duckes, my moder badde.'
It was so mervaile though I were sadde!
What availeth it me though I say, nay?

My master pepered my ars with well good spede:
It was worse than finkill sede.
He wold not leve till it did blede--
Mich sorow have he for his dede!
What availeth it me though I say, nay?

I wold my master were a watt,
And my boke a wild catt,
And a brase of grehoundes in his toppe--
I wold be glad for to see that!
What availeth it me though I say, nay?

I wold my master were an hare,
And all his bokes houndes were,
And I myself a joly hontere;
To blow my horn I wold not spare,
For if he were dede I wold not care!
What availeth it me though I say, nay?