The HyperTexts
The Best Medieval Poems in Modern English Translations
This page includes modern English translations of Old English poems and Middle English poems by
Aldhelm, John Audelay, Caedmon, Charles d'Orleans, Geoffrey Chaucer, William Cornish, Deor, William Dunbar,
Gildas, Godric of Finchale,
King Henry VIII, Robert Henryson, William Herebert, Thomas Hoccleve, William Langland, Layamon, John Lydgate,
Laurence Minot, The Pearl Poet, Thomas Phillipps, Richard of Caistre, Richard Rolle, James Ryman,
John Skelton, William of Shoreham, Winfred aka St. Boniface, and the greatest of the ancient poets, Anonymous. There are also translations/modernizations of late Medieval poems by Thomas Campion, Sir
Thomas Wyatt and Johann Angelus Silesius.
Some of the oldest English poems are among the most beautiful, including
"Merciless Beauty" by Geoffrey Chaucer, "Sweet Rose of Virtue" by William
Dunbar, and "Oft in My Thought" by Charles d'Orleans. All completely free here,
and without annoying advertisements …
For explanations of how he translates and why he calls his results "loose
translations" and "interpretations" please click here:
Michael R. Burch Translation
Methods and Credits to Other Translators
How Long the Night
anonymous Middle English lyric, circa early 13th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by
Michael R. Burch
It is pleasant, indeed, while the summer lasts
with the mild pheasants' song …
but now I feel the northern wind's blast—
its severe weather strong.
Alas! Alas! This night seems so long!
And I, because of my momentous wrong
now grieve, mourn and fast.
"Now skruketh rose and lylie flour" is an early Middle English poem that gives a hint of things to come,
in terms of meter and rhyme
…
Now skruketh rose and lylie flour
anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 11th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by
Michael R. Burch
Now
the rose and the lily skyward flower,
That will bear for awhile that sweet savor:
In summer, that sweet tide;
There is
no queen so stark in her power
Nor any lady so bright in her bower
That Death shall not summon and guide;
But whoever forgoes lust, in heavenly bliss will abide
With his thoughts
on Jesus anon, thralled at his side.
Now skruketh rose and lylie flour
That whilen ber that suete savour
In somer, that suete tyde;
Ne is no quene so stark ne stour,
Ne no luedy so bryht in bour
That ded ne shal by glyde:
Whoso wol fleshye lust for-gon and hevene-blisse abyde
On Jhesu be is thoht anon, that tharled was ys side.
skruketh = break forth, burst open; stour = strong, stern, hardy; tharled = thralled?, made a serf?, bound?
A similar poem to the one above, in time and language, is
"Blow Northerne Wynd," which has been called the "most ancient love
poem in the English language," perhaps composed during the reign of King John.
But I prefer the lovely poem above, although I see nothing wrong with a little
healthy lust!
Next is my translation of a wonderful poem by an early Scottish
master, William Dunbar. "Sweet Rose of Virtue" has been one of my favorite poems
since I first read it. I decided to translate it myself, to make it
more accessible to modern readers:
Sweet Rose of Virtue
by William Dunbar (1460-1525)
loose translation/interpretation by
Michael R. Burch
Sweet rose of virtue and of gentleness,
delightful lily of youthful wantonness,
richest in bounty and in beauty clear
and in every virtue that is held most dear―
except only that you are merciless.
Into your garden, today, I followed you;
there I saw flowers of freshest hue,
both white and red, delightful to see,
and wholesome herbs, waving resplendently―
yet everywhere, no odor but rue.
I fear that March with his last arctic blast
has slain my fair rose and left her downcast,
whose piteous death does my heart such pain
that I long to plant love's root again―
so comforting her bowering leaves have been.
If the tenth line seems confusing, it helps to know that rue symbolizes
pity and also has medicinal uses; thus I believe the unrequiting lover is being
accused of a lack of compassion and perhaps of withholding her healing
attentions. The penultimate line can be taken as a rather naughty double
entendre, but I will leave that interpretation up to the reader!
The original poem by William Dunbar:
Sweit rois of vertew and of gentilnes,
Delytsum lyllie of everie lustynes,
Richest in bontie and in bewtie cleir
And everie vertew that is deir,
Except onlie that ye are mercyles.
Into your garthe this day I did persew.
Thair saw I flowris that fresche wer of hew,
Baithe quhyte and rid, moist lusty wer to seyne,
And halsum herbis upone stalkis grene,
Yit leif nor flour fynd could I nane of rew.
I dout that Merche with his caild blastis keyne
Hes slane this gentill herbe that I of mene,
Quhois petewous deithe dois to my hart sic pane
That I wald mak to plant his rute agane,
So that confortand his levis unto me bene.
My translation of "Lament for the Makaris" by William Dunbar appears later on
this page.
The Maiden’s Song aka The Bridal Morn
anonymous Medieval lyric
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The maidens came to my mother’s bower.
I had all I would, that hour.
The bailey beareth the bell away;
The lily, the rose, the rose I lay.
Now silver is white, red is the gold;
The robes they lay in fold.
The bailey beareth the bell away;
The lily, the rose, the rose I lay.
Still through the window shines the sun.
How should I love, yet be so young?
The bailey beareth the bell away;
The lily, the rose, the rose I lay.
I take this to be a naughty, suggestive poem, but one that makes us feel
sympathy for a young bride, quite possibly a child bride. Once upon a time there
was a custom of people witnessing a marriage's consummation, called a “bedding
ceremony,” which in this case might have taken place in the mother's "bower"
(bedroom). If the witnesses didn't watch the act, they might have been just
outside the door, drinking and telling coarse jokes at the bride’s expense. The
"bailey" may be the bailiff, spreading the marriage bans that result in the
"bell" (hymen/virginity) being borne away. The bride's attire has changed color
from white and gold (both symbols of purity) to silver (not as pure) and red
(hymeneal blood). The pure white lily has been replaced by a rose. "The rose I
lay" and "they lay in fold" seem like suggestive wordplay to me. I take the sun
shining through the window to be the following morning, with the young bride a
bit nonplussed about the (probably) arranged and (possibly) premature affair. In
any case, it's a fetching and thought-provoking little poem.
Next are four
splendid but little-known poems from the early 13th century that may predate Chaucer. Please
note the introduction of end rhyme …
Westron Wynde
anonymous Middle English lyric, found in a partbook circa 1530 AD,
but perhaps written earlier
loose translation/interpretation by
Michael R. Burch
Western wind, when will you blow,
bringing the drizzling rain?
Christ, that my love were in my arms,
and I in my bed again!
The original poem has "the smalle rayne down can rayne" which suggests a
drizzle or mist.
This World's Joy
anonymous Middle English lyric, circa early 14th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by
Michael R. Burch
Winter awakens all my care
as leafless trees grow bare.
For now my sighs are fraught
whenever it enters my thought:
regarding this world's joy,
how everything comes to naught.
[MS. Harl. 2253. f. 49r]
Wynter wakeneth al my care,
Nou this leves waxeth bare.
Ofte y sike ant mourne sare
When hit cometh in my thoht
Of this worldes joie, hou hit goth al to noht.
I Have Labored Sore
anonymous medieval lyric circa the fifteenth century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I have labored sore and suffered death,
so now I rest and catch my breath.
But I shall come and call right soon
heaven and earth and hell to doom.
Then all shall know both devil and man
just who I was and what I am.
I haue laborede sore and suffered deyeth
and now I Rest and draw my [b]reyght
But I schall com and call Ryght sone
heuen and erthe and hell to dome
and than schall know both devyll and man
what I was and what I am
A Lyke-Wake Dirge
anonymous medieval lyric circa the 16th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The Lie-Awake Dirge is “the night watch kept over a corpse.”
This one night, this one night,
every night and all;
fire and sleet and candlelight,
and Christ receive thy soul.
When from this earthly life you pass
every night and all,
to confront your past you must come at last,
and Christ receive thy soul.
If you ever donated socks and shoes,
every night and all,
sit right down and slip yours on,
and Christ receive thy soul.
But if you never helped your brother,
every night and all,
walk barefoot through the flames of hell,
and Christ receive thy soul.
If ever you shared your food and drink,
every night and all,
the fire will never make you shrink,
and Christ receive thy soul.
But if you never helped your brother,
every night and all,
walk starving through the black abyss,
and Christ receive thy soul.
This one night, this one night,
every night and all;
fire and sleet and candlelight,
and Christ receive thy soul.
Excerpt from “Ubi Sunt Qui Ante Nos Fuerunt?”
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1275
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Where are the men who came before us,
who led hounds and hawks to the hunt,
who commanded fields and woods?
Where are the elegant ladies in their boudoirs
who braided gold through their hair
and had such fair complexions?
Once eating and drinking gladdened their hearts;
they enjoyed their games;
men bowed before them;
they bore themselves loftily …
But then, in an eye’s twinkling,
they were gone.
Where now are their songs and their laughter,
the trains of their dresses,
the arrogance of their entrances and exits,
their hawks and their hounds?
All their joy has vanished;
their “well” has come to “oh, well”
and to many dark days …
Pity Mary
anonymous Middle English lyric, circa early 13th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by
Michael R. Burch
Now the sun passes under the wood:
I rue, Mary, thy face—fair, good.
Now the sun passes under the tree:
I rue, Mary, thy son and thee.
In the poem above, note how "wood" and "tree" invoke the cross while "sun" and
"son" seem to invoke each other. Sun-day is also Son-day, to Christians. The
anonymous poet who wrote the poem above may have been been punning the
words "sun" and "son." The poem is also known as "Now Goeth
Sun Under Wood" and "Now Go'th Sun Under Wood."
Fowles in the Frith
anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by
Michael R. Burch
The fowls in the forest,
the fishes in the flood
and I must go mad:
such sorrow I've had
for beasts of bone and blood!
Sounds like an early animal rights activist! The use of "and" is intriguing …
is the poet saying that his walks in the woods drive him mad because he's also a
"beast of bone and blood" facing a similar fate? I must note, however,
that this is my personal interpretation. The poem has "beste" and the poet may
have meant "for the best of bone and blood" meaning some unidentified person,
presumably.
I am of Ireland
anonymous Medieval Irish lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by
Michael R. Burch
I am of Ireland,
and of the holy realm of Ireland.
Gentlefolk, I pray thee:
for the sake of saintly charity,
come dance with me
in Ireland!
Ich am of Irlaunde,
Ant of the holy londe
Of Irlande.
Gode sire, pray ich the,
For of saynte charité,
Come ant daunce wyth me
In Irlaunde.
The poem above still smacks of German, with "Ich" for "I." But a metamorphosis was
clearly in progress: English poetry was evolving to employ meter and rhyme, as
well as Anglo-Saxon alliteration. And it's interesting to note that "ballad,"
"ballet" and "ball" all have the same root: the Latin ballare (to
dance) and the Italian ballo/balleto (a dance). Think of a farm
community assembling for a hoe-down, then dancing a two-step to music with lyrics.
That is apparently how many early English poems originated. And the more regular
meter of the evolving poems would suit music well.
Is this the oldest carpe diem poem in the English language?
Whan the turuf is thy tour
anonymous Middle English lyric, circa the 13th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by
Michael R. Burch
1.
When the turf is your tower
and the pit is your bower,
your pale white skin and throat
shall be sullen worms’ to note.
What help to you, then,
was all your worldly hope?
2.
When the turf is your tower
and the grave is your bower,
your pale white throat and skin
worm-eaten from within …
what hope of my help then?
The second translation leans more to the "lover's complaint" and carpe
diem genres, with the poet pointing out to his prospective lover that by
denying him her favors she make take her virtue to the grave where worms will
end her virginity in macabre fashion. This poem may be an ancient precursor of
poems like Andrew Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress."
Whan the turuf is thy tour,
And thy pit is thy bour,
Thy fel and thy whitë throtë
Shullen wormës to notë.
What helpëth thee thennë
Al the worildë wennë?
Ech day me comëth tydinges thre
anonymous Middle English lyric, circa the 13th to 14th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by
Michael R. Burch
Each day I’m plagued by three doles,
These gargantuan weights on my soul:
First, that I must somehow exit this fen.
Second, that I cannot know when.
And yet it’s the third that torments me so,
Because I don't know where the hell I will go!
Ech day me comëth tydinges thre,
For wel swithë sore ben he:
The on is that Ich shal hennë,
That other that Ich not whennë,
The thriddë is my mestë carë,
That Ich not whider Ich shal farë.
Ich have y-don al myn youth
anonymous Middle English lyric, circa the 13th to 14th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by
Michael R. Burch
I have done it all my youth:
Often, often, and often!
I have loved long and yearned zealously …
And oh what grief it has brought me!
Ich have y-don al myn youth,
Oftë, ofte, and ofte;
Longe y-loved and yerne y-beden –
Ful dere it is y-bought!
GEOFFREY CHAUCER
Three Roundels by Geoffrey Chaucer
I. Merciles Beaute
("Merciless Beauty")
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Your eyes slay me suddenly;
their beauty I cannot sustain,
they wound me so, through my heart keen.
Unless your words heal me hastily,
my heart's wound will remain green;
for your eyes slay me suddenly;
their beauty I cannot sustain.
By all truth, I tell you faithfully
that you are of life and death my queen;
for at my death this truth shall be seen:
your eyes slay me suddenly;
their beauty I cannot sustain,
they wound me so, through my heart keen.
Original Middle English Text:
Your yën two wol sle me sodenly,
I may the beaute of hem not sustene,
So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene.
And but your word wol helen hastily
My hertes wounde, whyl that hit is grene,
Your yën two wol sle me sodenly;
may the beaute of hem not sustene.
Upon my trouthe I sey yow feithfully,
That ye ben of my lyf and deth the quene;
For with my deth the trouthe shal be sene.
Your yën two wol sle me sodenly,
I may the beaute of hem not sustene,
So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene.
II. Rejection
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Your beauty from your heart has so erased
Pity, that it’s useless to complain;
For Pride now holds your mercy by a chain.
I'm guiltless, yet my sentence has been cast.
I tell you truly, needless now to feign,—
Your beauty from your heart has so erased
Pity, that it’s useless to complain.
Alas, that Nature in your face compassed
Such beauty, that no man may hope attain
To mercy, though he perish from the pain;
Your beauty from your heart has so erased
Pity, that it’s useless to complain;
For Pride now holds your mercy by a chain.
Original Middle English Text:
So hath your beaute fro your herte chaced
Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne;
For Daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne.
Giltles my deth thus han ye me purchaced;
I sey yow soth, me nedeth not to feyne;
So hath your beaute fro your herle chaced
Pilee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne
Allas! that nature hath in yow compassed
So gret beaute, that no man may atteyne
To mercy, though he sterve for the peyne.
So hath your beaute fro your herte chaced
Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne;
For daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne.
III. Escape
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
I never plan to be in his prison lean;
Since I am free, I count it not a bean.
He may question me and counter this and that;
I care not: I will answer just as I mean.
Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
I never plan to be in his prison lean.
Love strikes me from his roster, short and flat,
And he is struck from my books, just as clean,
Forevermore; there is no other mean.
Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
I never plan to be in his prison lean;
Since I am free, I count it not a bean.
Original Middle English Text:
Sin I fro love escaped am so fat,
I never thenk to ben in his prison lene;
Sin I am fre, I counte him not a bene.
He may answere, and seye this or that;
I do no fors, I speke right as I mene.
Sin I fro love escaped am so fat,
I never thenk to ben in his prison lene.
Love hath my name y-strike out of his sclat,
And he is strike out of my bokes clene
For ever-mo; [ther] is non other mene.
Sin I fro love escaped am so fat,
I never thenk to ben in his prison lene;
Sin I am fre, I counte him not a bene.
Explicit.
Welcome, Summer
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft,
since you’ve banished Winter with her icy weather
and driven away her long nights’ frosts.
Saint Valentine, in the heavens aloft,
the songbirds sing your praises together!
Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft,
since you’ve banished Winter with her icy weather.
We have good cause to rejoice, not scoff,
since love’s in the air, and also in the heather,
whenever we find such blissful warmth, together.
Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft,
since you’ve banished Winter with her icy weather
and driven away her long nights’ frosts.
To Rosemounde: A Ballade
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Madame, you’re a shrine to loveliness
And as world-encircling as trade’s duties.
For your eyes shine like glorious crystals
And your round cheeks like rubies.
Therefore you’re so merry and so jocund
That at a revel, when that I see you dance,
You become an ointment to my wound,
Though you offer me no dalliance.
For though I weep huge buckets of warm tears,
Still woe cannot confound my heart.
For your seemly voice, so delicately pronounced,
Make my thoughts abound with bliss, even apart.
So courteously I go, by your love bound,
So that I say to myself, in true penance,
"Suffer me to love you Rosemounde;
Though you offer me no dalliance.”
Never was a pike so sauce-immersed
As I, in love, am now enmeshed and wounded.
For which I often, of myself, divine
That I am truly Tristam the Second.
My love may not grow cold, nor numb,
I burn in an amorous pleasance.
Do as you will, and I will be your thrall,
Though you offer me no dalliance.
Original Middle English Text:
Madame, ye ben of al beaute shryne
As fer as cercled is the mapamounde,
For as the cristal glorious ye shyne,
And lyke ruby ben your chekes rounde.
Therwith ye ben so mery and so jocounde
That at a revel whan that I see you daunce,
It is an oynement unto my wounde,
Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce.
For thogh I wepe of teres ful a tyne,
Yet may that wo myn herte nat confounde;
Your semy voys that ye so smal out twyne
Maketh my thoght in joy and blis habounde.
So curtaysly I go with love bounde
That to myself I sey in my penaunce,
"Suffyseth me to love you, Rosemounde,
Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce."
Nas neuer pyk walwed in galauntyne
As I in love am walwed and ywounde,
For which ful ofte I of myself devyne
That I am trew Tristam the secounde.
My love may not refreyde nor affounde,
I brenne ay in an amorous plesaunce.
Do what you lyst, I wyl your thral be founde,
Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce.
A Lady without Paragon
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Hide, Absalom, your shining tresses;
Esther, veil your meekness;
Retract, Jonathan, your friendly caresses;
Penelope and Marcia Catoun?
Other wives hold no comparison;
Hide your beauties, Isolde and Helen;
My lady comes, all stars to outshine.
Thy body fair? Let it not appear,
Lavinia and Lucretia of Rome;
Nor Polyxena, who found love’s cost so dear;
Nor Cleopatra, with all her passion.
Hide the truth of love and your renown;
And thou, Thisbe, who felt such pain;
My lady comes, all stars to outshine.
Hero, Dido, Laodamia, all fair,
And Phyllis, hanging for Demophon;
And Canace, dead by love’s cruel spear;
And Hypsipyle, betrayed along with Jason;
Make of your truth neither boast nor swoon,
Nor Hypermnestra nor Adriane, ye twain;
My lady comes, all stars to outshine.
“Cantus Troili” from Troilus and Criseide
by Petrarch
“If no love is, O God, what fele I so?” translation by Geoffrey Chaucer
modernization by Michael R. Burch
If there’s no love, O God, why then, so low?
And if love is, what thing, and which, is he?
If love is good, whence comes my dismal woe?
If wicked, love’s a wonder unto me,
When every torment and adversity
That comes from him, persuades me not to think,
For the more I thirst, the more I itch to drink!
And if in my own lust I choose to burn,
From whence comes all my wailing and complaint?
If harm agrees with me, where can I turn?
I know not, all I do is feint and faint!
O quick death and sweet harm so pale and quaint,
How may there be in me such quantity
Of you, ’cept I consent to make us three?
And if I so consent, I wrongfully
Complain, I know. Thus pummeled to and fro,
All starless, lost and compassless, am I
Amidst the sea, between two rending winds,
That in diverse directions bid me, “Go!”
Alas! What is this wondrous malady?
For heat of cold, for cold of heat, I die.
CHARLES D'ORLEANS
Rondel: Your Smiling Mouth
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray,
Your ample breasts and slender arms’ twin chains,
Your hands so smooth, each finger straight and plain,
Your little feet—please, what more can I say?
It is my fetish when you’re far away
To muse on these and thus to soothe my pain—
Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray,
Your ample breasts and slender arms’ twin chains.
So would I beg you, if I only may,
To see such sights as I before have seen,
Because my fetish pleases me. Obscene?
I’ll be obsessed until my dying day
By your sweet smiling mouth and eyes, bright gray,
Your ample breasts and slender arms’ twin chains!
Spring
by Charles d’Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
Young lovers,
greeting the spring
fling themselves downhill,
making cobblestones ring
with their wild leaps and arcs,
like ecstatic sparks
struck from coal.
What is their brazen goal?
They grab at whatever passes,
so we can only hazard guesses.
But they rear like prancing steeds
raked by brilliant spurs of need,
Young lovers.
The original French poem:
Jeunes amoureux nouveaulx
En la nouvelle saison,
Par les rues, sans raison,
Chevauchent, faisans les saulx.
Et font saillir des carreaulx
Le feu, comme de cherbon,
Jeunes amoureux nouveaulx.
Je ne sçay se leurs travaulx
Ilz emploient bien ou non,
Mais piqués de l’esperon
Sont autant que leurs chevaulx
Jeunes amoureux nouveaulx.
Oft in My Thought
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
So often in my busy mind I sought,
Around the advent of the fledgling year,
For something pretty that I really ought
To give my lady dear;
But that sweet thought's been wrested from me, clear,
Since death, alas, has sealed her under clay
And robbed the world of all that's precious here―
God keep her soul, I can no better say.
For me to keep my manner and my thought
Acceptable, as suits my age's hour?
While proving that I never once forgot
Her worth? It tests my power!
I serve her now with masses and with prayer;
For it would be
a shame for me to stray
Far from my faith, when my time's drawing near—
God keep her soul, I can no better say.
Now earthly profits fail, since all is lost
And the cost of everything became
so dear;
Therefore, O Lord, who rules the higher host,
Take my good deeds, as many as there are,
And crown her, Lord, above in your bright sphere,
As heaven's truest maid! And may I
say:
Most good, most fair, most likely to bring cheer—
God keep her soul, I can no better say.
When I praise her, or hear her praises raised,
I recall how recently she brought me pleasure;
Then my heart floods like an overflowing bay
And makes me wish to dress for my own bier—
God keep her soul, I can no better say.
Winter has cast his cloak away
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
Winter has cast his cloak away
of wind and cold and chilling rain
to dress in embroidered light again:
the light of day—bright, festive, gay!
Each bird and beast, without delay,
in its own tongue, sings this refrain:
"Winter has cast his cloak away!"
Brooks, fountains, rivers, streams at play,
wear, with their summer livery,
bright beads of silver jewelry.
All the Earth has a new and fresh display:
Winter has cast his cloak away!
This rondeau was set to music by Debussy in his Trois chansons de
France.
The year lays down his mantle cold
by Charles d’Orleans (1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
The year lays down his mantle cold
of wind, chill rain and bitter air,
and now goes clad in clothes of gold
of smiling suns and seasons fair,
while birds and beasts of wood and fold
now with each cry and song declare:
"The year lays down his mantle cold!"
All brooks, springs, rivers, seaward rolled,
now pleasant summer livery wear
with silver beads embroidered where
the world puts off its raiment old.
The year lays down his mantle cold.
Fair Lady Without Peer
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Fair Lady, without peer, my plea,
Is that your grace will pardon me,
Since I implore, on bended knee.
No longer can I, privately,
Keep this from you: my deep distress,
When only you can comfort me,
For I consider you my only mistress.
This powerful love demands, I fear,
That I confess things openly,
Since to your service I came here
And my helpless eyes were forced to see
Such beauty gods and angels cheer,
Which brought me joy in such excess
That I became your servant, gladly,
For I consider you my only mistress.
Please grant me this great gift most dear:
to be your vassal, willingly.
May it please you that, now, year by year,
I shall serve you as my only Liege.
I bend the knee here—true, sincere—
Unfit to beg one royal kiss,
Although none other offers cheer,
For I consider you my only mistress.
Chanson: Let Him Refrain from Loving, Who Can
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Let him refrain from loving, who can.
I can no longer hover.
I must become a lover.
What will become of me, I know not.
Although I’ve heard the distant thought
that those who love all suffer,
I must become a lover.
I can no longer refrain.
My heart must risk almost certain pain
and trust in Beauty, however distraught.
For if a man does not love, then what?
Let him refrain from loving, who can.
Her Beauty
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Her beauty, to the world so plain,
Still intimately held my heart in thrall
And so established her sole reign:
She was, of Good, the cascading fountain.
Thus of my Love, lost recently,
I say, while weeping bitterly:
“We cleave to this strange world in vain.”
In ages past when angels fell
The world grew darker with the stain
Of their dear blood, then became hell
While poets wept a tearful strain.
Yet, to his dark and drear domain
Death took his victims, piteously,
So that we bards write bitterly:
“We cleave to this strange world in vain.”
Death comes to claim our angels, all,
as well we know, and spares no pain.
Over our pleasures, Death casts his pall,
Then without joy we “living” remain.
Death treats all Love with such disdain!
What use is this world? For it seems to me,
It has neither Love, nor Pity.
Thus “We cleave to this strange world in vain.”
Chanson: The Summer's Heralds
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The Summer’s heralds bring a dear
Sweet season of soft-falling showers
And carpet fields once brown and sere
With lush green grasses and fresh flowers.
Now over gleaming lawns appear
The bright sun-dappled lengthening hours.
The Summer’s heralds bring a dear
Sweet season of soft-falling showers.
Faint hearts once chained by sullen fear
No longer shiver, tremble, cower.
North winds no longer storm and glower.
For winter has no business here.
Traitorous Eye
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Traitorous eye, what’s new?
What lewd pranks do you have in view?
Without civil warning, you spy,
And no one ever knows why!
Who understands anything you do?
You’re rash and crass in your boldness too,
And your lewdness is hard to subdue.
Change your crude ways, can’t you?
Traitorous eye, what’s new?
You should be beaten through and through
With a stripling birch strap or two.
Traitorous eye, what’s new?
What lewd pranks do have you in view?
“Whoso List to Hunt” is a famous, very early English sonnet written by Sir Thomas Wyatt
(1503-1542) in the
mid-16th century. The poem was first published in a 1557 anthology
entitled Songes and Sonettes Written by the Ryght Honorable Lord Henry
Howard, late Earle of Surrey, and others. The anthology was published in
London by Richard Tottel and is better known today as Tottel's Miscellany.
This was the modern English language's first printed poetry anthology, and thus a
ground-breaking work of literature. Wyatt's poem, which has an alternate title, “The
Lover Despairing to Attain Unto His Lady’s Grace Relinquisheth the Pursuit,” is
commonly believed to have been written for Anne Boleyn, who married King
Henry VIII only to be beheaded at his command when she failed to
produce a male heir. (Ouch, talk about male chauvinism!) This is my attempt at a
modernization of the poem:
Whoso List to Hunt ("Whoever Longs to Hunt")
by Sir Thomas Wyatt
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
Whoever longs to hunt, I know the deer;
but as for me, alas!, I may no more.
This vain pursuit has left me so bone-sore
I'm one of those who falters, at the rear.
Yet friend, how can I draw my anguished mind
away from the doe?
Thus, as she flees before
me, fainting I follow.
I must leave off, therefore,
since in a net I seek to hold the wind.
Whoever seeks her out,
I relieve of any doubt,
that he, like me, must spend his time in vain.
For graven with diamonds, set in letters plain,
these words appear, her fair neck ringed about:
Touch me not, for Caesar's I am,
And wild to hold, though I seem tame.
This is a modern English prose paraphrase, also by
Michael R. Burch: "Whoever
longs to
hunt, I can recommend the deer to pursue. But as for me,
I just can't keep up any more. My vain pursuit has left me tired
and sore to the bone. Now I'm one of the hunters who lags the furthest behind.
But how can I draw my weary mind away from the deer? So as she flees before me,
I follow even though I'm fainting and fading fast. But I have to give up,
because it's like trying to catch the wind in a net. Still, whoever longs to
hunt should have no doubt that he too will spend his time in
vain, because engraved in diamonds and written in plain letters around her
throat are the king's words: "Touch me not, for I belong to Caesar, and am wild
to hold, although I seem tame."
Whoso List to Hunt
by Sir Thomas Wyatt
Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind,
But as for me, hélas, I may no more.
The vain travail hath wearied me so sore,
I am of them that farthest cometh behind.
Yet may I by no means my wearied mind
Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore
Fainting I follow. I leave off therefore,
Sithens in a net I seek to hold the wind.
Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt,
As well as I may spend his time in vain.
And graven with diamonds in letters plain
There is written, her fair neck round about:
Noli me tangere, for Caesar's I am,
And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.
Noli me tangere means "Touch me not." According to the Bible, this is
what Jesus said to Mary Magdalene when she tried to embrace him after the
resurrection.
My lute and I
by Sir Thomas Wyatt, circa early 16th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
At most mischief
I suffer grief
Without relief
Since I have none;
My lute and I
Continually
Shall both apply
To sigh and moan.
Nought may prevail
To weep or wail;
Pity doth fail
In you, alas!
Mourning or moan,
Complaint, or none,
It is all one,
As in this case.
For cruelty,
Most that can be,
Hath sovereignty
Within your heart;
Which maketh bare
All my welfare:
Nought do you care
How sore I smart.
No tiger's heart
Is so perverse
Without desert
To wreak his ire;
And me? You kill
For my goodwill;
Lo, how I spill
For my desire!
There is no love
Your heart to move,
And I can prove
No other way;
Therefore I must
Restrain my lust,
Banish my trust
And wealth away.
Thus in mischief
I suffer grief,
Without relief
Since I have none,
My lute and I
Continually
Shall both apply
To sigh and moan.
What menethe this?
by Sir Thomas Wyatt, circa early 16th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
WHAT does this mean, when I lie alone?
I toss, I turn, I sigh, I groan;
My bed seems near as hard as stone:
What means this?
I sigh, I plain continually;
The clothes that on my bed do lie,
Always, methinks, they lie awry;
What means this?
In slumbers oft for fear I quake;
For heat and cold I burn and shake;
For lack of sleep my head doth ache;
What means this?
At mornings then when I do rise,
I turn unto my wonted guise,
All day thereafter, muse and devise;
What means this?
And if perchance by me there pass,
She, unto whom I sue for grace,
The cold blood forsaketh my face;
What means this?
But if I sit with her nearby,
With a loud voice my heart doth cry,
And yet my mouth is dumb and dry;
What means this?
To ask for help, no heart I have;
My tongue doth fail what I should crave;
Yet inwardly I rage and rave;
What means this?
Thus I have passed many a year,
And many a day, though nought appear,
But most of that which I most I fear;
What means this?
Yet ons I was
by Sir Thomas Wyatt, circa early 16th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Once in your grace I know I was,
Even as well as now is he;
Though Fortune hath so turned my case
That I am down and he full high;
Yet once I was.
Once I was he that did you please
So well that nothing did I doubt,
And though today ye think it ease
To take him in and throw me out;
Yet once I was.
Once I was he, in times past.
That as your own ye did retain:
And though ye have me now out-cast,
Showing untruth in you to reign;
Yet once I was.
Once I was he that knit the knot
The which ye swore not to unknit,
And though ye feign it now forgot,
In using your newfangled wit;
Yet once I was.
Once I was he to whom ye said,
“Welcome, my joy, my whole delight!”
And though ye are now well repaid
Of me, your own, your claim seems slight;
Yet once I was.
Once I was he to whom ye spake,
“Have here my heart! It is thy own.”
And though these words ye now forsake,
Saying thereof my part is none;
Yet once I was.
Once I was he that led the cast,
But now am he that must needs die.
And though I die, yet, at the last,
In your remembrance let it lie,
That once I was.
“Stafell Gynddylan” (“The Hall of Cynddylan”) belongs to the cycle of Welsh
englynion (three-line stanzas) traditionally called “Canu Heledd” (“The Song of
Heledd”). Some englynion such as “Canu Llywarch Hen,” “Canu Urien” and “Canu
Heledd” are called saga englynion because they are considered to be part of saga
cycles. “Stafell Gynddylan” laments the destruction of Cynddylan and his warband
at the hands of the English (at that time the Saxons). These poems are attested
principally in the Red Book of Hergest, which was written circa 1382 to 1410.
The Welsh “dd” is pronounced “th.”
Cynddylan is pronounced KahN-THIHL-aeN.
Stafell Gynddylan (“The Hall of Cynddylan”)
Welsh englynion circa 1382-1410
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The hall of Cynddylan lies dark tonight.
Lacking fire and a bed,
I will weep awhile then lapse into silence.
The hall of Cynddylan lies dark tonight.
Lacking fire or a candle,
save God, who will preserve my sanity?
The hall of Cynddylan lies dark tonight.
Lacking fire, lacking light,
grief for you overwhelms me!
The hall of Cynddylan’s roof is dark.
After the blessed assembly,
still little the good that comes of it.
Hall of Cynddylan, you have become shapeless, amorphous.
Your shield lies in the grave.
While he lived, no one breached these gates.
The hall of Cynddylan mourns tonight,
mourns for its lost protector.
Alas death, why did you spare me?
The hall of Cynddylan trembles tonight,
atop the shivering rock,
lacking lord, lacking liege, lacking protector.
The hall of Cynddylan lies dark tonight.
Lacking fire, lacking mirth, lacking songs.
My cheeks are eroded by tears.
The hall of Cynddylan lies dark tonight.
Lacking fire, lacking heroes, lacking a warband.
Abundant, my tears’ rains.
The hall of Cynddylan offends my eyes,
lacking roof, lacking fire.
My lord lies dead, and yet I still live?
The hall of Cynddylan lies shattered tonight,
without her steadfast warriors,
Elfan, and gold-torqued Cynddylan.
The hall of Cynddylan lies desolate tonight,
no longer respected
without the men and women who maintained it.
The hall of Cynddylan lies quiet tonight,
stunned to silence by losing its lord.
Merciful God, what must I do?
The hall of Cynddylan’s roof is dark,
after the Saxons destroyed
shining Cynddylan and Elfan of Powys.
The hall of Cynddylan lies dark tonight:
lost, the race of the Cyndrwyn,
of Cynon and Gwion and Gwyn.
Hall of Cynddylan, you wound me, hourly,
having lost that great company
who once warmed hands at your hearth.
This early Middle English poem is a "bridge" of sorts between
Anglo-Saxon poetry and later Middle English poetry …
Brut, an excerpt
by Layamon, circa 1100 AD
loose translation/interpretation by
Michael R. Burch
Now he stands on a hill overlooking the Avon,
seeing steel fishes girded with swords in the stream,
their swimming days done,
their scales a-gleam like gold-plated shields,
their fish-spines floating like shattered spears.
Layamon's Brut is a 32,000-line poem composed
in Middle English that shows a strong Anglo-Saxon influence and contains the
first known reference to King Arthur in English. The passage above is a good
example of Layamon's gift for imagery. It's interesting, I think, that a
thousand years ago a poet was dabbling in surrealism, with dead warriors being
described as if they were both men and fish.
The following are some of the best Old English (i.e., Anglo Saxon) poems …
Wulf and Eadwacer
Old English poem circa 960-990 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My people pursue him like crippled prey.
They'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack.
We are so different!
Wulf's on one island; I'm on another.
His island's a fortress, fastened by fens.
Here, bloodthirsty curs howl for carnage.
They'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack.
We are so different!
My thoughts pursued Wulf like panting hounds.
Whenever it rained, as I wept,
the bold warrior came; he took me in his arms:
good feelings, to a point, but the end loathsome!
Wulf, O, my Wulf, my ache for you
has made me sick; your infrequent visits
have left me famished, deprived of real meat!
Do you hear, Eadwacer? Watchdog!
A wolf has borne
our wretched whelp to the woods.
One can easily sever what never was one:
our song together.
What an earthy, dirty, brutally honest poem written from a female perspective about
what sounds like war, a family being split apart, and perhaps rape, sex slavery
and child abduction and/or infanticide. Much remains in doubt: did Wulf abduct
the child, perhaps thinking the child was his, or did the mother, the rapist or perhaps the rapist's
wife get rid of the child? In my opinion the original poem is one of the truly
great poems in the English language, so my translation seems like a worthwhile
endeavor, especially if other people like what I've done.
Cædmon's Hymn
Old English poem circa 658-680 AD
loose translation/interpretation by
Michael R. Burch
Come, let us honour heaven-kingdom's Guardian,
the might of the Architect and his mind-plans,
the work of the Glory-Father. First he, the Everlasting Lord,
established the foundation of wonders.
Then he, the Primeval Poet, created heaven as a roof
for the sons of men, Holy Creator,
Maker of mankind. Then he, the Eternal Entity,
afterwards made men middle-earth: Master Almighty!
"Cædmon's Hymn" was composed sometime between 658 and 680 AD and may
be the oldest extant poem in the English language. According to the
Venerable Bede (673-735), Cædmon was an illiterate herdsman who was given the
gift of poetic composition by an angel. In the original poem, hardly a word is
recognizable as English because Cædmon was writing in a somewhat Anglicized form of
ancient German. The word "England" harkens back to Angle-land; the Angles were a
Germanic tribe. Nevertheless, by Cædmon's time the foundations of English poetry
were being laid, particularly in the areas of accentual meter and alliteration.
Poets were considered to be "Makers" (as in William Dunbar's "Lament for the
Makaris"), and poetry was considered to have a divine origin, so the poem may
express a sort of affinity between the poet and his Creator.
A Proverb from Winfred's Time
anonymous Old English poem, circa 757-786 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
The procrastinator puts off purpose,
never initiates anything marvelous,
never succeeds, dies dead alone.
2.
The late-deed-doer delays glory-striving,
never indulges daring dreams,
never succeeds, dies dead alone.
3.
Often the deed-dodger avoids ventures,
never succeeds, dies dead alone.
Oft daedlata domę foręldit,
sigisitha gahuem, suuyltit thi ana.
Winfrid or Wynfrith is better known as Saint Boniface (c. 675-754 AD). The poem
might better be titled "A Proverb Against Procrastination from Winfred's Time."
This may be the second-oldest English poem, after "Caedmon's Hymn."
Franks Casket Runes
anonymous Old English poems, circa 700 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The fish flooded the shore-cliffs;
the sea-king wept when he swam onto the shingle:
whale's bone.
Fisc flōd āhōf on firgenberig.
Wearþ gāsric grorn þǣr hē on grēot geswam.
Hranes bān.
Romulus and Remus, twin brothers weaned in Rome
by a she-wolf, far from their native land.
Rōmwalus and Rēomwalus, twēgen gebrōðera:
fēdde hīe wylf in Rōmeceastre, ēðle unnēah.
"The Leiden
Riddle" is an Old English translation of Aldhelm's Latin riddle Lorica
("Corselet").
The Leiden Riddle
anonymous Old English riddle poem, circa 700 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The dank earth birthed me from her icy womb.
I know I was not fashioned from woolen fleeces;
nor was I skillfully spun from skeins;
I have neither warp nor weft;
no thread thrums through me in the thrashing loom;
nor do whirring shuttles rattle me;
nor does the weaver's rod assail me;
nor did silkworms spin me like skillful fates
into curious golden embroidery.
And yet heroes still call me an excellent coat.
Nor do I fear the dread arrows' flights,
however eagerly they leap from their quivers.
Solution: a coat of mail.
If you see a busker singing for tips, you're seeing someone carrying on an
Anglo-Saxon tradition that goes back to the days of Beowulf …
He sits with his harp at his thane's feet,
Earning his hire, his rewards of rings,
Sweeping the strings with his skillful nail;
Hall-thanes smile at the sweet song he sings.
—"Fortunes of Men" loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Here's one of the first Old English/Anglo-Saxon poems to employ a refrain:
Deor's Lament
Anglo Saxon poem, circa 10th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by
Michael R. Burch
Weland knew the agony of exile.
That indomitable smith was wracked by grief.
He endured countless troubles:
sorrows were his only companions
in his frozen island dungeon
after Nithad had fettered him,
many strong-but-supple sinew-bonds
binding the better man.
That passed away; this also may.
Beadohild mourned her brothers' deaths
but even more, her own sad state
once she discovered herself with child.
She predicted nothing good could come of it.
That passed away; this also may.
We have heard that the Geat's moans for Matilda,
his lady, were limitless,
that his sorrowful love for her
robbed him of regretless sleep.
That passed away; this also may.
For thirty winters Theodric ruled
the Mæring stronghold with an iron hand;
many knew this and moaned.
That passed away; this also may.
We have also heard of Ermanaric's wolfish ways,
of how he held wide sway in the realm of the Goths.
He was a grim king! Many a warrior sat,
full of cares and maladies of the mind,
wishing constantly that his kingdom might be overthrown.
That passed away; this also may.
If a man sits long enough, sorrowful and anxious,
bereft of joy, his mind constantly darkening,
soon it seems to him that his troubles are endless.
Then he must consider that the wise Lord
often moves through the earth
granting some men honor, glory and fame,
but others only shame and hardship.
This I will say for myself:
that for awhile I was the Heodeninga's scop,
dear to my lord. My name was Deor.
For many winters I held a fine office,
faithfully serving a just lord. But now Heorrenda
a man skilful in songs, has received the estate
the protector of warriors gave me.
That passed away; this also may.
"The Wife's Lament" or "The Wife's Complaint" is an Old English/Anglo Saxon
poem found in the Exeter Book. It's generally considered to be an elegy in the
manner of the German frauenlied, or "woman's song," although there are
other interpretations of the poem's genre and purpose. The Exeter Book has been
dated to 960-990 AD, making it the oldest English poetry anthology, but of course the poem may have been written earlier.
The Wife's Lament
loose translation/interpretation by
Michael R. Burch
I draw these words from deep wells of my grief,
care-worn, unutterably sad.
I can recount woes I've borne since birth,
present and past, never more than now.
I have won, from my exile-paths, only pain.
First, my lord forsook his folk, left,
crossed the seas' tumult, far from our people.
Since then, I've known
wrenching dawn-griefs, dark mournings … oh where,
where can he be?
Then I, too, left—a lonely, lordless refugee,
full of unaccountable desires!
But the man's kinsmen schemed secretly
to estrange us, divide us, keep us apart,
across earth's wide kingdom, and my heart broke.
Then my lord spoke:
"Take up residence here."
I had few friends in this unknown, cheerless
region, none close.
Christ, I felt lost!
Then I thought I had found a well-matched man –
one meant for me,
but unfortunately he
was ill-starred and blind, with a devious mind,
full of murderous intentions, plotting some crime!
Before God we
vowed never to part, not till kingdom come, never!
But now that's all changed, forever –
our friendship done, severed.
I must hear, far and near, contempt for my husband.
So other men bade me, "Go, live in the grove,
beneath the great oaks, in an earth-cave, alone."
In this ancient cave-dwelling I am lost and oppressed –
the valleys are dark, the hills immense,
and this cruel-briared enclosure—an arid abode!
The injustice assails me—my lord's absence!
On earth there are lovers who share the same bed
while I pass through life dead in this dark abscess
where I wilt, summer days unable to rest
or forget the sorrows of my life's hard lot.
A young woman must always be
stern, hard-of-heart, unmoved,
opposing breast-cares and her heartaches' legions.
She must appear cheerful
even in a tumult of grief.
Like a criminal exiled to a far-off land,
moaning beneath insurmountable cliffs,
my weary-minded love, drenched by wild storms
and caught in the clutches of anguish,
is reminded constantly of our former happiness.
Woe be it to them who abide in longing.
"The Husband's Message" is another poem
from the Exeter Book. It may or may not be a reply to "The Wife's Lament." The
poem is generally considered to be an Anglo-Saxon riddle (I will provide the
solution), but its primary focus is on persuading a wife or pledged fiancée to
join her husband or betrothed and fulfill her promises to him.
The Husband's Message
anonymous Old English poem, circa 960-990 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
See, I unseal myself for your eyes only!
I sprang from a seed to a sapling,
waxed great in a wood,
was given knowledge,
was ordered across saltstreams in ships
where I stiffened my spine, standing tall,
till,
entering the halls of heroes,
I honored my manly Lord.
Now I stand here on this ship’s deck,
an emissary ordered to inform you
of
the love my Lord feels for you.
I have no fear forecasting his heart steadfast,
his honor bright, his word true.
He who bade me come carved this letter
and entreats you to recall, clad in your finery,
what you promised each other many years before,
mindful of his treasure-laden promises.
He reminds you how, in those distant days,
witty words were pledged by you both
in the mead-halls and homesteads:
how he would be Lord of the lands
you would inhabit together
while forging a lasting love.
Alas, a vendetta drove him far from his feuding tribe,
but now he instructs me to gladly give you notice
that
when you hear the returning cuckoo's cry
cascading down warming coastal cliffs,
come over the sea! Let no man hinder your course.
He earnestly urges you: Out! To sea!
Away to the sea, when the circling gulls
hover over the ship that conveys you to him!
Board the ship that you meet there:
sail away seaward to seek your husband,
over the seagulls' range,
over the paths of foam.
For over the water, he awaits you.
He cannot conceive, he told me,
how any keener joy could comfort his heart,
nor any greater happiness gladden his soul,
than that a generous God should grant you both
to exchange rings, then give gifts to trusty liege-men,
golden armbands inlaid with gems to faithful followers.
The lands are his, his estates among strangers,
his new abode fair and his followers true,
all hardy heroes, since hence he was driven,
shoved off in his ship from these shore in distress,
steered straightway over the saltstreams, sped over the ocean,
a wave-tossed wanderer winging away.
But now the man has overcome his woes,
outpitted his perils, lives in plenty, lacks no luxury,
has a hoard and horses and friends in the mead-halls.
All the wealth of the earth's great earls
now
belongs to my Lord …
He only lacks you.
He would have everything within an earl's having,
if only my Lady will come home to him now,
if only she will do as she swore and honor her vow.
Are these the oldest rhyming poems in the English language?
Reginald of Durham recorded four verses of Saint Godric's: they are the oldest
songs in English for which the original musical settings survive.
The first song is said in the Life of Saint Godric to have come to Godric
when he had a vision of his sister Burhcwen, like him a solitary at Finchale,
being received into heaven. She was singing a song of thanksgiving, in Latin,
and Godric renders her song in English bracketed by a Kyrie eleison:
Led By Christ and Mary
by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
By Christ and Saint Mary I was so graciously led
that the earth never felt my bare foot’s tread!
Crist and sainte marie swa on scamel me iledde
þat ic on þis erðe ne silde wid mine bare fote itredie
In the second poem, Godric puns on his name: godes riche means “God’s kingdom” and sounds like “God is rich” …
A Cry to Mary
by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I.
Saintë Marië Virginë,
Mother of Jesus Christ the Nazarenë,
Welcome, shield and help thin Godric,
Fly him off to God’s kingdom rich!
II.
Saintë Marië, Christ’s bower,
Virgin among Maidens, Motherhood’s flower,
Blot out my sin, fix where I’m flawed,
Elevate me to Bliss with God!
Saintë Marië Virginë,
Moder Iesu Cristes Nazarenë,
Onfo, schild, help thin Godric,
Onfong bring hegilich
With the in Godës riche.
Saintë Marië Cristes bur,
Maidenës clenhad, moderës flur;
Dilie min sinnë, rix in min mod,
Bring me to winnë with the selfd God.
Godric also wrote a prayer to St. Nicholas:
Prayer to St. Nicholas
by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Saint Nicholas, beloved of God,
Build us a house that’s bright and fair;
Watch over us from birth to bier,
Then, Saint Nicholas, bring us safely there!
Sainte Nicholaes godes druð
tymbre us faire scone hus
At þi burth at þi bare
Sainte nicholaes bring vs wel þare
Another candidate for the first rhyming English poem is actually called
"The Rhyming Poem" as well as "The
Riming Poem" and "The Rhymed Poem." This is
a truly revolutionary poem
from the Exeter Book. The poem is generally considered to be an elegy
or lament in the Germanic tradition. Its main theme is the impermanence of human
joy, accomplishments and life.
The Rhymed Poem aka The Rhyming Poem and
The Riming Poem
anonymous Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem from the Exeter Book, circa 990 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
He who granted me life created this sun
and graciously provided its radiant engine.
I was gladdened with glees, bathed in bright hues,
deluged with joy’s blossoms, sunshine-infused.
Men admired me, feted me with banquet-courses;
we rejoiced in the good life. Gaily bedecked horses
carried me swiftly across plains on joyful rides,
delighting me with their long limbs' thunderous strides.
That world was quickened by earth’s fruits and their flavors!
I cantered under pleasant skies, attended by troops of advisers.
Guests came and went, amusing me with their chatter
as I listened with delight to their witty palaver.
Well-appointed ships glided by in the distance;
when I sailed myself, I was never without guidance.
I was of the highest rank; I lacked for nothing in the hall;
nor did I lack for brave companions; warriors, all,
we strode through castle halls weighed down with gold
won from our service to thanes. We were proud men, and bold.
Wise men praised me; I was omnipotent in battle;
Fate smiled on and protected me; foes fled before me like cattle.
Thus I lived with joy indwelling; faithful retainers surrounded me;
I possessed vast estates; I commanded all my eyes could see;
the earth lay subdued before me; I sat on a princely throne;
the words I sang were charmed; old friendships did not wane …
Those were years rich in gifts and the sounds of happy harp-strings,
when a lasting peace dammed shut the rivers’ sorrowings.
My servants were keen, their harps resonant;
their songs pealed, the sound loud but pleasant;
the music they made melodious, a continual delight;
the castle hall trembled and towered bright.
Courage increased, wealth waxed with my talent;
I gave wise counsel to great lords and enriched the valiant.
My spirit enlarged; my heart rejoiced;
good faith flourished; glory abounded; abundance increased.
I was lavishly supplied with gold; bright gems were circulated …
Till treasure led to treachery and the bonds of friendship constricted.
I was bold in my bright array, noble in my equipage,
my joy princely, my home a happy hermitage.
I protected and led my people;
for many years my life among them was regal;
I was devoted to them and they to me.
But now my heart is troubled, fearful of the fates I see;
disaster seems unavoidable. Someone dear departs in flight by night
who once before was bold. His soul has lost its light.
A secret disease in full growth blooms within his breast,
spreads in different directions. Hostility blossoms in his chest,
in his mind. Bottomless grief assaults the mind's nature
and when penned in, erupts in rupture,
burns eagerly for calamity, runs bitterly about.
The weary man suffers, begins a journey into doubt;
his pain is ceaseless; pain increases his sorrows, destroys his bliss;
his glory ceases; he loses his happiness;
he loses his craft; he no longer burns with desires.
Thus joys here perish, lordships expire;
men lose faith and descend into vice;
infirm faith degenerates into evil’s curse;
faith feebly abandons its high seat and every hour grows worse.
So now the world changes; Fate leaves men lame;
Death pursues hatred and brings men to shame.
The happy clan perishes; the spear rends the marrow;
the evildoer brawls and poisons the arrow;
sorrow devours the city; old age castrates courage;
misery flourishes; wrath desecrates the peerage;
the abyss of sin widens; the treacherous path snakes;
resentment burrows, digs in, wrinkles, engraves;
artificial beauty grows foul;
the summer heat cools;
earthly wealth fails;
enmity rages, cruel, bold;
the might of the world ages, courage grows cold.
Fate wove itself for me and my sentence was given:
that I should dig a grave and seek that grim cavern
men cannot avoid when death comes, arrow-swift,
to seize their lives in his inevitable grasp.
Now night comes at last,
and the way stand clear
for Death to dispossesses me of my my abode here.
When my corpse lies interred and the worms eat my limbs,
whom will Death delight then, with his dark feast and hymns?
Let men’s bones become one,
and then finally, none,
till there’s nothing left here of the evil ones.
But men of good faith will not be destroyed;
the good man will rise, far beyond the Void,
who chastened himself, more often than not,
to avoid bitter sins and that final black Blot.
The good man has hope of a far better end
and remembers the promise of Heaven,
where he’ll experience the mercies of God for his saints,
freed from all sins, dark and depraved,
defended from vices, gloriously saved,
where, happy at last before their cheerful Lord,
men may rejoice in his love forevermore.
Adam Lay Ybounden
anonymous Medieval English Lyric, circa early 15th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by
Michael R. Burch
Adam lay bound, bound in a bond;
Four thousand winters, he thought, were not too long.
And all was for an apple, an apple that he took,
As clerics now find written in their book.
But had the apple not been taken, or had it never been,
We'd never have had our Lady, heaven's queen.
So blesséd be the time the apple was taken thus;
Therefore we sing, "God is gracious!"
The poem has also been rendered as "Adam lay i-bounden" and "Adam lay i-bowndyn."
Here's the original poem in one of its ancient forms:
Adam lay i-bounden, bounden in a bond;
Foure thousand winter thought he not too long.
And all was for an apple, an apple that he took,
As clerkes finden written in theire book.
Ne hadde the apple taken been, the apple taken been,
Ne hadde never our Lady aye been heavene queen.
Blessed be the time that apple taken was,
Therefore we moun singen, “Deo gracias!”
I Sing of a Maiden
anonymous Medieval English Lyric, circa early 15th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by
Michael R. Burch
I sing of a maiden
That is matchless.
The
King of all Kings
For her son she chose.
He came also as still
To his mother's breast
As April dew
Falling on the grass.
He came also as still
To his mother's bower
As April dew
Falling on the flower.
He came also as still
To where his mother lay
As April dew
Falling on the spray.
Mother and maiden?
Never one, but she!
Well may such a lady
God's mother be!
Here's the original poem in one of its ancient forms:
I sing of a maiden (virgin)
That is makeles: (matchless / mateless / spotless)
King of alle kinges
To her sone she chees. (for her son she chose)
He cam also stille (He came as silently)
Ther his moder was (where his mother was)
As dewe in Aprille
That falleth on the gras.
He cam also stille
To his modres bowr (mother's bower, perhaps meaning both bedroom and leafy nest)
As dewe in Aprille
That falleth on the flowr.
He cam also stille
Ther his moder lay
As dewe in Aprille
That falleth on the spray (blossom and/or budding twig)
Moder and maiden (Mother and virgin)
Was nevere noon but she:
Well may swich a lady (such a lady)
Godes moder be.
IN LIBRARIOS
by Thomas Campion
Impressionum plurium librum laudat
Librarius; scortum nec non minus leno.
Novelties
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Booksellers laud authors for novel editions
as pimps praise their whores for exotic positions.
Now here's a poem whose second line enthralled C. S. Lewis. I'm not sure about
the source of the original poem, but my "translation" is based on a poem of the
same name by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow …
Tegner's Drapa
loose translation/interpretation by
Michael R. Burch
I heard a voice, that cried,
“Balder the beautiful lies dead, lies dead …”
a voice like the flight of white cranes
intent on a sun sailing high overhead—
but a sun now irretrievably setting.
Then I saw the sun’s corpse
—dead beyond all begetting—
borne through disconsolate skies
as blasts from the Nifel-heim rang out with dread,
“Balder lies dead, our fair Balder lies dead! …”
Lost—the sweet runes of his tongue,
so sweet every lark hushed its singing!
Lost, lost forever—his beautiful face,
the grace of his smile, all the girls’ hearts wild-winging!
O, who ever thought such strange words might be said,
as “Balder lies dead, gentle Balder lies dead! …”
Here's my translation of another poem by an early Scottish master, William
Dunbar. My translation of Dunbar's "Sweet Rose of Virtue" appears toward the top
of this page.
Lament for the Makaris (Makers, or Poets)
by William Dunbar (1460-1525)
loose translation/interpretation by
Michael R. Burch
i who enjoyed good health and gladness
am overwhelmed now by life’s terrible sickness
and enfeebled with infirmity …
how the fear of Death dismays me!
our presence here is mere vainglory;
the false world is but transitory;
the flesh is frail; the Fiend runs free …
how the fear of Death dismays me!
the state of man is changeable:
now sound, now sick, now blithe, now dull,
now manic, now devoid of glee …
how the fear of Death dismays me!
no state on earth stands here securely;
as the wild wind shakes the willow tree,
so wavers this world’s vanity …
how the fear of Death dismays me!
Death leads the knights into the field
(unarmored under helm and shield)
sole Victor of each red mêlée …
how the fear of Death dismays me!
that strange, despotic Beast
tears from its mother’s breast
the babe, full of benignity …
how the fear of Death dismays me!
He takes the champion of the hour,
the captain of the highest tower,
the beautiful damsel in her tower …
how the fear of Death dismays me!
He spares no lord for his elegance,
nor clerk for his intelligence;
His dreadful stroke no man can flee …
how the fear of Death dismays me!
artist, magician, scientist,
orator, debater, theologist,
must all conclude, so too, as we:
“how the fear of Death dismays me!”
in medicine the most astute
sawbones and surgeons all fall mute;
they cannot save themselves, or flee …
how the fear of Death dismays me!
i see the Makers among the unsaved;
the greatest of Poets all go to the grave;
He does not spare them their faculty …
how the fear of Death dismays me!
i have seen Him pitilessly devour
our noble Chaucer, poetry’s flower,
and Lydgate and Gower (great Trinity!) …
how the fear of Death dismays me!
since He has taken my brothers all,
i know He will not let me live past the fall;
His next prey will be — poor unfortunate me! …
how the fear of Death dismays me!
there is no remedy for Death;
we all must prepare to relinquish breath
so that after we die, we may be set free
from “the fear of Death dismays me!”
Fairest Between Lincoln and Lindsey
anonymous Middle English poem, circa late 13th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
When the nightingale sings, the woods turn green;
Leaf and grass again blossom in April, I know,
Yet love pierces my heart with its spear so keen!
Night and day it drinks my blood. The painful rivulets flow.
I’ve loved all this year. Now I can love no more;
I’ve sighed many a sigh, sweetheart, and yet all seems wrong.
For love is no nearer and that leaves me poor.
Sweet lover, think of me — I’ve loved you so long!
When the nyhtegale singes, the wodes waxen grene;
Lef ant gras ant blosme springes in Averyl, Y wene,
Ant love is to myn herte gon with one spere so kene!
Nyht ant day my blod hit drynkes. Myn herte deth me tene.
Ich have loved al this yer that Y may love namore;
Ich have siked moni syk, lemmon, for thin ore.
Me nis love never the ner, ant that me reweth sore.
Suete lemmon, thench on me — Ich have loved the yore!
A cleric courts his lady
anonymous Middle English poem, circa late 13th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My death I love, my life I hate, because of a lovely lady;
She's as bright as the broad daylight, and shines on me so purely.
I fade before her like a leaf in summer when it's green.
If thinking of her does no good, to whom shall I complain?
“My deth Y love, my lyf Ich hate, for a levedy shene;
Heo is brith so daies liht, that is on me wel sene.
Al Y falewe so doth the lef in somer when hit is grene,
Yef mi thoht helpeth me noht, to wham shal Y me mene?
Sumer is icumen in
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1260 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sing now cuckoo! Sing, cuckoo!
Sing, cuckoo! Sing now cuckoo!
Summer is a-comin'!
Sing loud, cuckoo!
The seed grows,
The meadow blows,
The woods spring up anew.
Sing, cuckoo!
The ewe bleats for her lamb;
The cows contentedly moo;
The bullock roots;
The billy-goat poots …
Sing merrily, cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo,
You sing so well, cuckoo!
Never stop, until you're through!
The Maiden Lay in the Wilds
circa the 14th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The maiden in the moor lay,
in the moor lay;
seven nights full,
seven nights full,
the maiden in the moor lay,
in the moor lay,
seven nights full and a day.
Sweet was her meat.
But what was her meat?
The primrose and the—
The primrose and the—
Sweet was her meat.
But what was her meat?
The primrose and the violet.
Pure was her drink.
But what was her drink?
The cold waters of the—
The cold waters of the—
Pure was her drink.
But what was her drink?
The cold waters of the well-spring.
Bright was her bower.
But what was her bower?
The red rose and the—
The red rose and the—
Bright was her bower.
But what was her bower?
The red rose and the lily flower.
The World an Illusion
circa 14th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This is the sum of wisdom bright:
however things may appear,
life vanishes like birds in flight;
now it’s here, now there.
Nor are we mighty in our “might”—
now on the bench, now on the bier.
However vigilant or wise,
in health it’s death we fear.
However proud and without peer,
no man’s immune to tragedy.
And though we think all’s solid here,
this world is but a fantasy.
The sun’s course we may claim to know:
arises east, sets in the west;
we know which way earth’s rivers flow,
into the seas that fill and crest.
The winds rush here and there, also,
it rains and snows without arrest.
Will it all end? God only knows,
with the wisdom of the Blessed,
while we on earth remain hard-pressed,
all bedraggled, or too dry,
until we vanish, just a guest:
this world is but a fantasy.
I Have a Noble Cock
circa early 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I have a gentle cock
who crows in the day;
he bids me rise early,
my matins to say.
I have a gentle cock,
he comes with the great;
his comb is of red coral,
his tail of jet.
I have a gentle cock,
kind and laconic;
his comb is of red coral,
his tail of onyx.
His legs are pale azure,
so gentle and so slender;
his spurs are silver-white,
so pretty and so tender!
His eyes are like fine crystal
set deep in golden amber,
and every night he perches
in my lady’s chamber.
Trust Only Yourself
circa the 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Alas! Deceit lies in trust now,
dubious as Fortune, spinning like a ball,
as brittle when tested as a rotten bough.
He who trusts in trust is ripe for a fall!
Such guile in trust cannot be trusted,
or a man will soon find himself busted.
Therefore, “Be wary of trust!” is my advice.
Trust only yourself and learn to be wise.
See, Here, My Heart
circa the 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
O, mankind,
please keep in mind
where Passions start:
there you will find
me wholly kind—
see, here, my heart.
How Death Comes
circa the 13th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
When my eyes mist
and my ears hiss
and my nose grows cold
as my tongue folds
and my face grows slack
as my lips grow black
and my mouth gapes
as my spit forms lakes
and my hair falls
as my heart stalls
and my hand shake
as my feet quake:
All too late! All too late!
When the bier is at the gate.
Then I shall pass
from bed to floor,
from floor to shroud,
from shroud to bier,
from bier to grave,
the grave closed forever!
Then my house will rest on my nose.
This world’s not worth a farthing, Heaven knows!
JAMES RYMAN
James Ryman was an accomplished 15th century
English poet whose religious poems were preserved in the Ryman manuscript. Ryman
also wrote a large number of English carols and translations of hymns. His
best-known poems, albeit largely forgotten today, include “There is a Child, a
Heavenly Child,” “A Song of the Eucharist,” “Mary and Her Son Alone,” the
amusing “Farewell Advent!” and “Now the Most High is Born” (“Upon a night an
aungell bright”).
Farewell Advent!
by James Ryman
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Please note that “all and some” means “one and all.”
Farewell, Advent; Christmas has come;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
With patience thou hast us fed
Yet made us go hungry to bed;
For lack of meat, we were nigh dead;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
When you came, hasty, to our house,
We ate no puddings, no, nor souce, [pickled pork]
But stinking fish not worth a louse;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
There was no fresh fish, far nor near;
Salt fish and salmon were too dear,
And thus we’ve had but heavy cheer;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
Thou hast fed us with servings thin,
Nothing on them but bone and skin;
Therefore our love thou shalt not win;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
With mussels gaping after the moon
Thou hast fed us, at night and noon,
But once a week, and that too soon;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
Our bread was brown, our ale was thin;
Our bread was musty in the bin;
Our ale was sour, or we’d dive in;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
Thou art of great ingratitude,
Good meat from us, for to exclude;
Thou art not kind but very rude;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
Thou dwellest with us against our will,
And yet thou gavest us not our fill;
For lack of meat thou would’st us spill;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
Above all things thou art most mean
To make our cheeks both bare and lean;
I would thou were at Boughton Bleane!
Farewell from us, both all and some.
Come thou no more, here, nor in Kent,
For, if thou dost, thou shalt be shent; [reviled, shamed, reproached]
It is enough to fast in Lent;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
Thou mayest not dwell with heaven’s estate;
Therefore with us thou playest checkmate;
Go hence, or we will break thy pate!
Farewell from us, both all and some.
Thou mayest not dwell with knight nor squire;
For them thou mayest lie in the mire;
They love not thee, nor Lent, thy sire;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
Thou mayest not dwell with laboring man,
For on thy fare no skill can he fan,
For he must eat every now and then;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
Thus thou must dwell with monk and friar,
Canon and nun, once every year,
Yet thou shouldest make us better cheer;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
This time of Christ’s feast natal,
We will be merry, great and small,
While thou (haste!) exit from this hall;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
Advent is gone; Christmas is come;
Now we are merry, all and some;
He is not wise that will be dumb;
In ortu Regis omnium. [At the birth of the King of all.]
John Audelay (died c. 1426) was an English priest and poet from Haughmond
Abbey, in Shropshire. He is one one of the few English poets of his period whose
name remains known to us and sixty-two of his poems survive in the Audelay
Manuscript (c. 1426). Some of the oldest extant English Christmas carols appear
among his works. Dread of Death is his best-known and most-praised carol.
Audelay was part of the household of Richard, the Seventh Baron Strange of
Knockin, and served as his chaplain. He is also called John Audelay the Blind
and John Awdelay.
Dread of Death (excerpts)
by John Audelay
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Lady, help! Jesu, mercy!
Timor mortis conturbat me. [The fear of death dismays me.]
Dread of death, sorrow for sin,
Trouble my heart, full grievously:
My soul wars with my lust then.
Passio Christi conforta me. [Passion of Christ, strengthen me.]
As I lay sick in my languor,
With sorrow of heart and teary eye,
This carol I made with great dolor:
Passio Christi conforta me.
Original Middle English Text:
Ladé, helpe! Jhesu, mercé!
Timor mortis conturbat me.
Dred of deth, sorow of sin,
Trobils my hert full grevisly:
My soule it nyth with my lust then-
Passio Christi conforta me.
As I lay seke in my langure,
With sorow of hert and teere of ye,
This caral I made with gret doloure —
Passio Christi conforta me.
A Carol for Saint Francis
by John Audelay
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I pray you, sirs, for charity,
Please read this carol reverently,
For I made it with a tearful eye:
Your brother John the Blind Awdley.
Saint Francis, to thee I say,
Save thy brethren both night and day!
Original Middle English Text:
I pray youe, seris, pur charyté,
Redis this caral reverently,
Fore I mad hit with wepyng eye,
Your broder Jon the Blynd Awdlay.
The Three Living and the Three Dead Kings
by John Audelay
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Then the last king speaks; he looks at the hills;
Looks under his hands and holds his head;
But a dreadful blow coldly pierces his heart,
Like the knife or the key that chills the knuckle.
These are the three demons who stalk these hills;
May our Lord, who rules all, show us the quickest exit!
My heart bends with fright like a windblown reed,
Each finger trembles and grows weak with terror.
I'm forced to fear our fate;
therefore, let us flee, quickly!
I can offer no counsel but flight.
These devils make us cower,
For fear they will block our escape.
Original Middle English Text:
Þen speke þe henmest kyng, in þe hillis he beholdis,
He lokis vnder his hondis and his hed heldis;
Bot soche a carful k[ny]l to his hert coldis,
So doþ þe knyf ore þe kye, þat þe knoc kelddus.
Hit bene warlaws þre þat walkyn on þis woldis.
Oure Lord wyss us þe rede-way þat al þe word weldus!
My hert fare[s] fore freght as flagge when hit foldus,
Vche fyngyr of my hond fore ferdchip hit feldus.
Fers am I ferd of oure fare;
Fle we ful fast þer-fore.
Can Y no cownsel bot care.
Þese dewyls wil do vs to dare,
Fore drede lest þai duttyn vche a dore.
Nothing is known about Laurence Minot other than his name.
Les Espagnols-sur-mer
by Laurence Minot
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I would not spare to speak, if I wished success,
of strong men with weapons in worthy armor,
who were driven to deeds and now lie dead.
Who sailed the seas, fishes to feed.
Fell fishes they feed now, for all their vaunting fanfare;
for it was with the waning of the moon that they came there.
They sailed forth into perils on a summer’s tide,
with trumpets and tabors and exalted pride. ...
When they sailed westward, although they were mighty in war,
their bulwarks, their anchors were of no avail.
For mighty men of the west drew nearer and nearer
and they stumbled into the snare, because they had no fear.
For those who fail to flee become prey in the end
and those who once plundered, perish.
Original Middle English Text:
I wald noght spare for to speke, wist I to spede,
of wight men with wapin and worthly in wede
that now er driven to dale and ded all thaire dede.
Thai sail in the see gronde fissches to fede.
Fele fissches thai fede for all thaire grete fare;
it was in the waniand that thai come thare.
Thai sailed furth in the Swin in a somers tyde,
with trompes and taburns and mekill other pride. ...
When thai sailed westward, tho wight men in were,
thaire hurdis, thaire ankers hanged thai on here.
Wight men of the west neghed tham nerr
and gert tham snaper in the snare – might thai no ferr.
Fer might thai noght flit, bot thare most thai fine,
and that thai bifore reved than most thai tyne.
On the Siege of Calais, 1436
anonymous Middle English poem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
On the 19th of July, 1436, the Duke of Burgundy laid siege to the city of
Calais, but was forced to lift the siege just six days later.
The next morrow, while it was day,
Early, the Duke fled away,
And with him, they off Ghent.
For after Bruges and Apres both
To follow after they were not loath;
Thus they made their departure.
For they had knowledge
Of the Duke of Gloucester’s coming,
Calais to rescue.
Because they bode not there,
In Flanders, he sought them far and near,
That ever after they might rue it.
Original Middle English Text:
The next morow, or yt was day,
Erly the duk fled oway,
And with hym they off Gant.
And after Bruges and Apres both
To folow after they wer not loth;
Thus kept they ther avaunt.
For they had very knowyng
Off the duk off Gloceturs cumyng,
Caleys to rescue.
Bycaus they bod not ther
In Flanders he soght hem fer and ner,
That ever may they yt rew.
Beowulf
anonymous Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem, circa 8th-10th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
LO, praise the prowess of the Spear-Danes
whose clan-thanes ruled in days bygone,
possessed of dauntless courage and valor.
All have heard the honors the athelings won,
of Scyld Scefing, scourge of rebellious tribes,
wrecker of mead-benches, harrier of warriors,
awer of earls. He had come from afar,
first friendless, a foundling, till Fate intervened:
for he waxed under the welkin and persevered,
until folk, far and wide, on all coasts of the whale-path,
were forced to yield to him, bring him tribute.
A good king!
To him an heir was afterwards born,
a lad in his yards, a son in his halls,
sent by heaven to comfort the folk.
Knowing they'd lacked an earl a long while,
the Lord of Life,
the Almighty, made him far-renowned.
Beowulf’s fame flew far throughout the north,
the boast of him, this son of Scyld,
through Scandian lands.
...
Grendel was known of in Geatland, far-asea,
the horror of him.
...
Beowulf bade a seaworthy wave-cutter
be readied to bear him to Heorot,
over the swan's riding,
to defense of that good king, Hrothgar.
Wise men tried to dissuade him
because they held Beowulf dear,
but their warnings only whetted his war-lust.
Yet still he pondered the omens.
The resolute prince handpicked his men,
the fiercest of his folk, to assist him:
fourteen men sea-wise, stout-hearted,
battle-tested. Led them to the land's edge.
Hardened warriors hauled bright mail-coats,
well-wrought war gear, to the foot of her mast.
At high tide she rode the waves, hard in by headland,
as they waved their last farewells, then departed.
Away she broke like a sea-bird, skimming the waves,
wind-borne, her curved prow plowing the ocean,
till on the second day the skyline of Geatland loomed.
...
In the following poem Finnsburuh means "Finn's stronghold" and Finn was
a Frisian king. This battle between Danes and Frisians is also mentioned in the
epic Anglo-Saxon poem Beowulf. Hnaef and his 60 retainers were
house-guests of Finn at the time of the battle.
The Finnesburg Fragment or The Fight at Finnsburg
anonymous Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem, circa 10th-11th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Battle-bred Hnaef broke the silence:
"Are the eaves aflame, is there dawn in the east,
are there dragons aloft? No, only the flares of torches
borne on the night breeze. Evil is afoot. Soon the hoots of owls,
the weird wolf's howls, cries of the carrion crows, the arrow's screams,
and the shield's reply to the lance's shaft, shall
be heard.
Heed the omens of the moon, that welkin-wanderer.
We shall soon feel in full this folk's fury for us.
Shake yourselves awake, soldiers! On your feet!
Who's with me? Grab your swords and shields. Loft your linden!"
"The Battle of Brunanburh" is the first poem to appear in the Anglo-Saxon
Chronicle. Aethelstan and Edmund were the grandsons of King Alfred the Great.
The Battle of Brunanburh or The Battle of Brunanburgh
anonymous Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem, circa 937 AD or later
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. BurchHer Aethelstan cyning,
/ Aethelstan the King,
eorla dryhten, / Lord over earls,
beorna beag-giefa, / bracelet-bestower,
and his brothor eac, / and with him his brother,
Eadmund aetheling, / Edmund the Atheling,
ealdor-lange tir / earned unending glory:
geslogon aet saecce / glory they gained in battle
sweorda ecgum / as they slew with the sword's edge
ymbe Brunanburh. / many near Brunanburgh...
The Battle of Maldon
anonymous Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem, circa 991 AD or later
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
...would be broken.
Then he bade each warrior unbridle his horse,
set it free, drive it away and advance onward afoot,
intent on deeds of arms and dauntless courage.
It was then that Offa's kinsman kenned
their Earl would not accept cowardice,
for he set his beloved falcon free, let it fly woods-ward,
then stepped forward to battle himself, nothing withheld.
By this his men understood their young Earl's will full well,
that he would not weaken when taking up weapons.
Eadric desired to serve his Earl,
his Captain in the battle to come; thus he also advanced forward,
his spear raised, his spirit strong,
boldly grasping buckler and broadsword,
ready to keep his vow to stand fast in the fight.
Byrhtnoth marshalled his men,
teaching each warrior his task:
how to stand, where to be stationed...
Widsith, the "wide-wanderer" or "far-traveler," was a fictional poet and harper who claimed to have
sung for everyone from Alexander the Great, Caesar and Attila, to the various
kings of the Angles, Saxons and Vikings! The poem that bears his name is a
thula, or recited list of historical and legendary figures, and an
ancient version of, "I've Been Everywhere, Man."
Widsith, the Far-Traveler
anonymous Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem, circa 680-950 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Widsith the wide-wanderer began to speak,
unlocked his word-hoard, manifested his memories,
he who had travelled earth's roads furthest
among the races of men—their tribes, peoples and
lands.
He had often prospered in the mead-halls,
competing for precious stones with his tale-trove.
His ancestors hailed from among the Myrgings,
whence his lineage sprung, a scion of Ealhhild,
the fair peace-weaver. On his first journey, east of the Angles,
he had sought out the home of Eormanric,
the angry oath-breaker and betrayer of men.
Widsith, rich in recollections, began to share his wisdom thus:
I have learned much from mighty men, their tribes' mages,
and every prince must live according to his people's customs,
acting honorably,
if he wishes to prosper upon his throne.
Hwala was the best, for awhile,
Alexander the mightiest, beyond compare,
his empire the most prosperous and powerful of all,
among all the races of men, as far as I have heard tell.
Attila ruled the Huns, Eormanric the Goths,
Becca the Banings, Gifica the Burgundians,
Caesar the Greeks, Caelic the Finns,
Hagena the Holmrigs, Heoden the Glomms,
Witta the Swæfings, Wada the Hælsings,
Meaca the Myrgings, Mearchealf the Hundings,
Theodric the Franks, Thyle the Rondings,
Breoca the Brondings, Billing the Wærns,
Oswine the Eowan, Gefwulf the Jutes,
Finn Folcwalding the Frisians,
Sigehere ruled the Sea-Danes for decades,
Hnæf the Hockings, Helm the Wulfings,
Wald the Woings, Wod the Thuringians,
Sæferth the Secgan, Ongendtheow the Swedes,
Sceafthere the Ymbers, Sceafa the Lombards,
Hun the Hætwera, Holen the Wrosnas,
Hringweald was king of the Herefara.
Offa ruled the Angles, Alewih the Danes,
the bravest and boldest of men,
yet he never outdid Offa.
For Offa, while still a boy, won in battle the broadest of kingdoms.
No one as young was ever a worthier Earl!
With his stout sword he struck the boundary of the Myrgings,
fixed it at Fifeldor,
where afterwards the Angles and Swæfings held it.
Hrothulf and Hrothgar, uncle and nephew,
for a long time kept a careful peace together
after they had driven away the Vikings' kinsmen,
vanquished Ingeld's spear-hordes,
and hewed down at Heorot the host of the Heathobards.
Thus I have traveled among many foreign lands,
crossing the earth's breadth,
experiencing
both goodness and wickedness,
cut off from my kinsfolk,
far from my family.
Thus I can speak and sing these tidings in the mead-halls,
of how how I was received by the most excellent kings.
Many were magnanimous to me!
I was among the Huns and the glorious Ostrogoths,
among the Swedes, the Geats, and the South-Danes,
among the Vandals, the Wærnas, and the Vikings,
among the Gefthas, the Wends, and the Gefflas,
among the Angles, the Swabians, and the Ænenas,
among the Saxons, the Secgan, and the Swordsmen,
among the Hronas, the Danes, and the Heathoreams,
among the Thuringians and the Throndheims,
also
among the Burgundians, where I received an arm-ring;
Guthhere gave me a gleaming gem in return for my song.
He was no gem-hoarding king, slow to give!
I was among the Franks, the Frisians, and the Frumtings,
among the Rugas, the Glomms, and the Romans.
I was likewise in Italy with Ælfwine,
who had, as I'd heard, commendable hands,
fast to reward fame-winning deeds,
a generous sharer of rings and torques,
the noble son of Eadwine.
I was among the Saracens and also the Serings,
among the Greeks, the Finns, and also with Caesar,
the ruler of wine-rich cities and formidable fortresses,
of riches and rings and Roman domains.
He also controlled the kingdom of Wales.
I was among the Scots, the Picts and the Scrid-Finns,
among the Leons and Bretons and Lombards,
among the heathens and heroes and Huns,
among the Israelites and Assyrians,
among the Hebrews and Jews and Egyptians,
among the Medes and Persians and Myrgings,
and with the Mofdings against the Myrgings,
among the Amothings and the East-Thuringians,
among the Eolas, the Ista and the Idumings.
I was also with Eormanric for many years,
as long as the Goth-King availed me well,
that ruler of cities, who gave me gifts:
six hundred shillings of pure gold
beaten into a beautiful neck-ring!
This
I gave to Eadgils, overlord of the Myrgings
and my keeper-protector, when I returned home,
a precious adornment for my beloved prince,
after which he awarded me my father's estates.
Ealhhild gave me another gift,
that shining lady, that majestic queen,
the glorious daughter of Eadwine.
I sang her praises in many lands,
lauded her name, increased her fame,
the fairest of all beneath the heavens,
that gold-adorned queen, glad gift-sharer!
Later, Scilling and I created a song for our war-lord,
my shining speech swelling to the sound of his harp,
our voices in unison, so that many hardened men, too proud for tears,
called it the most moving song they'd ever heard.
Afterwards I wandered the Goths' homelands,
always
seeking the halest and heartiest companions,
such as could be found within Eormanric's horde.
I sought Hethca, Beadeca and the Herelings,
Emerca, Fridlal and the Ostrogoths,
even the wise father of Unwen.
I sought Secca and Becca, Seafola and Theodric,
Heathoric and Sifeca, Hlithe and Ongentheow,
Eadwine and Elsa, Ægelmund and Hungar,
even the brave band of the Broad-Myrgings.
I sought Wulfhere and Wyrmhere where war seldom slackened,
when the forces of Hræda with hard-striking swords
had to defend their imperiled homestead
in the Wistla woods against Attila's hordes.
I sought Rædhere, Rondhere, Rumstan and Gislhere,
Withergield and Freotheric, Wudga and Hama,
never the worst companions although I named them last.
Often from this band flew shrill-whistling wooden shafts,
shrieking spears from this ferocious nation,
felling enemies because they wielded the wound gold,
those good leaders, Wudga and Hama.
Thus I have always found this to be true in my far-venturing:
that the dearest man among earth-dwellers
is the one God gives to rule ably over others.
But the makar's weird is to be a wanderer. [maker's/minstrel's fate]
The minstrel travels far, from land to land,
singing his needs, speaking his grateful thanks,
whether in the sunny southlands or the frigid northlands,
measuring out his word-hoard to those unstingy of gifts,
to those rare elect rulers who understand art's effect on the multitudes,
to those open-handed lords who would have their fame spread,
via a new praise-verse, thus earning enduring reputations
under the heavens.
Lent is Come with Love to Town
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1330
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Springtime comes with love to town,
With blossoms and with birdsong ’round,
Bringing all this bliss:
Daisies in the dales,
Sweet notes of nightingales.
Each bird contributes songs;
The thrush chides ancient wrongs.
Departed, winter’s glowers;
The woodruff gayly flowers;
The birds create great noise
And warble of their joys,
Making all the woodlands ring!
Original Middle English Text:
Lenten ys come with love to toune,
With blosmen ant with briddes roune,
That al this blisse bryngeth.
Dayeseyes in this dales,
Notes suete of nyhtegales —
Uch foul song singeth!
The threstelcoc him threteth oo;
Away is huere wynter wo,
When woderove springeth.
This foules singeth, ferly fele,
Ant wlyteth on huere wynter wele,
That al the wode ryngeth!
“Blow, northerne wind”
anonymous Middle English poem, circa late 13th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Blow, northern wind,
Send my love, my sweeting,
Blow, northern wind,
Blow, blow, blow,
Our love completing!
“What is he, this lordling, that cometh from the fight?”
by William Herebert, circa early 14th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Who is he, this lordling, who staggers from the fight,
with blood-red garb so grisly arrayed,
once appareled in lineaments white?
Once so seemly in sight?
Once so valiant a knight?
“It is I, it is I, who alone speaks right,
a champion to heal mankind in this fight.”
Why then are your clothes a bloody mess,
like one who has trod a winepress?
“I trod the winepress alone,
else mankind was done.”
“Thou wommon boute fere”
by William Herebert, circa early 14th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Woman without compare,
you bore your own father:
great the wonder
that one woman was mother
to her father and brother,
as no one else ever was.
“Marye, maide, milde and fre”
by William of Shoreham, circa early 14th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Mary, maid, mild and free,
Chamber of the Trinity,
This while, listen to me,
As I greet you with a song ...
“My sang es in sihting”
by Richard Rolle, circa 14th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My song is in sighing,
My life is in longing,
Till I see thee, my King,
So fair in thy shining,
So fair in thy beauty,
Leading me into your light ...
A hymn to Jesus
by Richard of Caistre, circa 1400
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Jesu, Lord that madest me
and with thy blessed blood hath bought,
forgive that I have grieved thee,
in word, work, will and thought.
Jesu, for thy wounds’ hurt
of body, feet and hands too,
make me meek and low in heart,
and thee to love, as I should do...
In Praise of his Ugly Lady
by Thomas Hoccleve, early 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Of my lady? Well rejoice, I may!
Her golden forehead is full narrow and small;
Her brows are like dim, reed coral;
And her jet-black eyes glisten, aye.
Her bulging cheeks are soft as clay
with large jowls and substantial.
Her nose, an overhanging shady wall:
no rain in that mouth on a stormy day!
Her mouth is nothing scant with lips gray;
Her chin can scarcely be seen at all.
Her comely body is shaped like a football,
and she sings like a cawing jay.
Original Middle English Text:
Of my lady well me rejoise I may!
Hir golden forheed is full narw and smal;
Hir browes been lik to dim, reed coral;
And as the jeet hir yen glistren ay.
Hir bowgy cheekes been as softe as clay,
With large jowes and substancial.
Hir nose a pentice is that it ne shal
Reine in hir mouth thogh she uprightes lay.
Hir mouth is nothing scant with lippes gray;
Hir chin unnethe may be seen at al.
Hir comly body shape as a footbal,
And she singeth full like a papejay.
Lament for Chaucer
by Thomas Hoccleve, early 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Alas, my worthy master, honorable,
The very treasure and riches of this land!
Death, by your death, has done irreparable
harm to us: her cruel and vengeful hand
has robbed our country of sweet rhetoric...
Original Middle English Text:
ALLAS! my worthi maister honorable,
This landes verray tresor and richesse!
Deth by thy deth hath harme irreparable
Unto us doon: hir vengeable duresse
Despoiled hath this land of the swetnesse
Of rethorik; for unto Tullius
Was never man so lyk amonges us.
Also who was hier in philosophie
To Aristotle in our tonge but thou?
The steppes of Virgile in poesie
Thou folwedist eeke, men wot wel ynow.
Thou combre-worlde that the my maister slow—
Wolde I slayn were!—Deth, was to hastyf
To renne on thee and reve the thi lyf…
She myghte han taried hir vengeance a while
Til that sum man had egal to the be;
Nay, lat be that! sche knew wel that this yle
May never man forth brynge lyk to the,
And hir office needes do mot she:
God bad hir so, I truste as for the beste;
O maister, maister, God thi soule reste!
Holly and Ivy
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Nay! Ivy, nay!
It shall not be, like this:
Let Holy have the mastery,
As the manner is.
Holy stood in the hall
Fair to behold;
Ivy stood outside the door,
Lonely and cold.
Holy and his merry men
Commenced to dance and sing;
Ivy and her maidens
Were left outside to weep and wring.
Ivy has a chilblain,
She caught it with the cold.
So must they all have, aye,
Whom with Ivy hold.
Holly has berries
As red as any rose:
The foresters and hunters
Keep them from the does.
Ivy has berries
As black as any ill:
There comes the owl
To eat them as she will.
Holly has birds,
A full fair flock:
The nightingale, the popinjay,
The gentle lark.
Good Ivy, good Ivy,
What birds cling to you?
None but the owl
Who cries, "Who? Who?'
Original Middle English Text:
Nay! Ivy, nay!
It shall not be, iwis:
Let Holy have the maistry,
As the manner is.
Holy stond in the hall
Faire to behold:
Ivy stond without the dore--
She is full sore acold.
Holy and his mery men
They daunsen and they sing;
Ivy and her maidenes
They wepen and they wring.
Ivy hath a kibe--
She caght it with the colde.
So mot they all have ay
That with Ivy hold.
Holy hath beris
As rede as any rose:
The foster, the hunters
Kepe hem fro the doos.
Ivy hath beris
As blake as any slo:
Ther com the owle
And ete hem as she goo.
Holy hath birdes,
A full faire flok:
The nightingale, the poppyinguy,
The gayntil laverok.
Gode Ivy, gode Ivy,
What birdes hast thou?
Non but the owlet
That creye, "How! how!"
Unkindness Has Killed Me
anonymous Middle English poem, 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Grievous is my sorrow:
Both evening and morrow;
Unto myself alone
Thus do I moan,
That unkindness has killed me
And put me to this pain.
Alas! what remedy
That I cannot refrain?
Original Middle English text:
Grevus is my sorow:
Both evene and morow
Unto myselfe alone
Thus do I make my mone,
That unkindness haith killed me
And put me to this paine.
Alas! what remedy
That I cannot refraine?
from The Testament of John Lydgate
15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Behold, o man! lift up your eyes and see
What mortal pain I suffer for your trespass.
With piteous voice I cry and say to thee:
Behold my wounds, behold my bloody face,
Behold the rebukes that do me such menace,
Behold my enemies that do me so despise,
And how that I, to reform thee to grace,
Was like a lamb offered in sacrifice.
Original Middle English Text:
Beholde, o man! lyft up thyn eye and see
What mortall peyne I suffre for thi trespace.
With pietous voys I crye and sey to the:
Beholde my woundes, behold my blody face,
Beholde the rebukes that do me so manace,
Beholde my enemyes that do me so despice,
And how that I, to reforme the to grace,
Was like a lambe offred in sacryfice.
Vox ultima Crucis
from The Testament of John Lydgate, 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
TARRY no longer; toward thine heritage
Haste on thy way, and be of right good cheer.
Go each day onward on thy pilgrimage;
Think how short a time thou hast abided here.
Thy place is built above the stars clear,
No earthly palace wrought in such stately wise.
Come on, my friend, my brother must enter!
For thee I offered my blood in sacrifice.
Original Middle English text:
TARYE no lenger; toward thyn heritage
Hast on thy weye, and be of ryght good chere.
Go eche day onward on thy pylgrymage;
Thynke howe short tyme thou hast abyden here.
Thy place is bygged above the sterres clere,
Noon erthly palys wrought in so statly wyse.
Come on, my frend, my brother most entere!
For the I offered my blood in sacryfice.
Inordinate Love
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I shall say what inordinate love is:
The ferocity and singleness of mind,
An inextinguishable burning devoid of bliss,
A great hunger, too insatiable to decline,
A dulcet ill, an evil sweetness, blind,
A right wonderful, sugared, sweet error,
Without any rest, contrary to kind,
Without quiet, a riot of useless labor.
Original Middle English Text:
I shall say what inordinat love is:
The furiosite and wodness of minde,
A instinguible brenning fawting blis,
A gret hungre, insaciat to finde,
A dowcet ille, a ivell swetness blinde,
A right wonderfulle, sugred, swete errour,
Withoute labour rest, contrary to kinde,
Or withoute quiete to have huge labour.
Besse Bunting
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
In April and May
When hearts be all a-merry,
Bessie Bunting, the miller’s girl,
With lips as red as cherries,
Cast aside remembrance
To pass her time in dalliance
And leave her misery to chance.
Right womanly arrayed
In petticoats of white,
She was undismayed
And her countenance was light.
The spring under a thorn
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
At a wellspring, under a thorn,
the remedy for an ill was born.
There stood beside a maid
Full of love bound,
And whoso seeks true love,
In her it will be found.
The Complaint of Cresseid against Fate
Robert Henryson, 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
O sop of sorrow, sunken into care,
O wretched Cresseid, now and evermore
Gone is thy joy and all thy mirth on earth!
Stripped bare of blitheness and happiness,
No salve can save you from your sickness.
Fell is thy fortune, wicked thy fate.
All bliss banished and sorrow in bloom.
Would that I were buried under the earth
Where no one in Greece or Troy might hear it!
Original Middle English Text:
O sop of sorrow, sonkin into cair,
O cative Cresseid, now and evermair
Gane is thy joy and all thy mirth in eird!
Of all blyithnes now art thow blaiknit bair,
Thair is na salve may saif or sound thy sair,
Fell is thy fortoun, wickit is thy weird,
Thy blys is baneist and thy baill on breird.
Under the eirth God gif I gravin wer
Quhair nane of Grece nor yit of Troy micht heird!
A lover left alone with his thoughts
anonymous Middle English poem, circa later 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Continuance
of remembrance,
without ending,
causes me penance
and great grievance,
for your parting.
You are so deeply
engraved in my heart,
God only knows
that always before me
I ever see you
in thoughts covert.
Though I do not explain
my woeful pain,
I bear it still,
although it seems vain
to speak against
Fortune’s will.
Go, hert, hurt with adversity
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Go, heart, hurt with adversity,
and let my lady see thy wounds,
then say to her, as I say to thee:
“Farewell, my joy, and welcome pain,
till I see my lady again.”
I love a flower
by Thomas Phillipps, circa 1500
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
“I love, I love, and whom love ye?”
“I love a flower of fresh beauty.”
“I love another as well as ye.”
“That shall be proved here, anon,
If we three
together can agree
thereon.”
“I love a flower of sweet odour.”
“Marigolds or lavender?”
“Columbine, golds of sweet flavor?”
“Nay! Nay! Let be:
It is none of them
that liketh me.”
(The argument continues...)
“I love the rose, both red and white.”
“Is that your perfect appetite?”
“To talk of them is my delight.”
“Joyed may we be,
our Prince to see
and roses three.”
“Now we have loved and love will we,
this fair, fresh flower, full of beauty.”
“Most worthy it is, so thinketh me.”
“Then may it be proved here, anon,
that we three
did agree
as one.”
The sleeper hood-winked
by John Skelton, circa late 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
With “Lullay! Lullay!” like a child,
Thou sleepest too long, thou art beguiled.
“My darling dear, my daisy flower,”
let me, quoth he, “lie in your lap.”
“Lie still,” quoth she, “my paramour,”
“Lie still, of course, and take a nap.”
His head was heavy, such was his hap!
All drowsy, dreaming, drowned in sleep,
That of his love he took no keep. [paid no notice]
The Corpus Christi Carol
anonymous Middle English poem, circa early 16th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
He bore him up, he bore him down,
He bore him into an orchard brown.
Lully, lullay, lully, lullay!
The falcon has borne my mate away.
In that orchard there stood a hall
Hanged all over with purple and pall.
Lully, lullay, lully, lullay!
The falcon has borne my mate away.
And in that hall there stood a bed
hanged all over with gold so red.
Lully, lullay, lully, lullay!
The falcon has borne my mate away.
And in that bed there lies a knight,
His wounds all bleeding both day and night.
Lully, lullay, lully, lullay!
The falcon has borne my mate away.
By that bed's side there kneels a maid,
And she weeps both night and day.
Lully, lullay, lully, lullay!
The falcon has borne my mate away.
And by that bedside stands a stone,
"Corpus Christi" written thereon.
Lully, lullay, lully, lullay!
The falcon has borne my mate away.
Love ever green
attributed to King Henry VIII, circa 1515
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
If Henry VIII wrote the poem, he didn’t quite live up to it! – MRB
Green groweth the holly,
so doth the ivy.
Though winter’s blasts blow never so high,
green groweth the holly.
As the holly groweth green
and never changeth hue,
so am I, and ever have been,
unto my lady true.
Adew! Mine own lady.
Adew! My special.
Who hath my heart truly,
Be sure, and ever shall.
Pleasure it is
by William Cornish, early 16th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Pleasure it is,
to her, indeed.
The birds sing;
the deer in the dale,
the sheep in the vale,
the new corn springing.
God’s allowance
for sustenance,
his gifts to man.
Thus we always give him praise
and thank him, then.
And thank him, then.
The Vision of Piers Plowman
by William Langland, circa 1330-1400
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Incipit liber de Petro Plowman prologus
In a summer season when the sun shone soft,
I clothed myself in a cloak like a shepherd’s,
In a habit like a hermit's unholy in works,
And went out into the wide world, wonders to hear.
Then on a May morning on Malvern hills,
A marvel befell me, of fairies, methought.
I was weary with wandering and went to rest
Under a broad bank, by a brook's side,
And as I lay, leaned over and looked on the waters,
I fell into a slumber, for it sounded so merry.
Soon I began to dream a marvellous dream:
That I was in a wilderness, I wist not where.
As I looked to the east, right into the sun,
I saw a tower on a knoll, worthily built,
With a deep dale beneath and a dungeon therein,
Full of deep, dark ditches and and dreadful to behold.
Then a fair field full of fond folk, I espied between,
Of all manner of men, both rich and poor,
Working and wandering, as the world demands.
Some put themselves to the plow, seldom playing,
But setting and sowing they sweated copiously
And won that which wasters destroyed by gluttony...
Pearl
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1400
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Pearl, the pleasant prize of princes,
Chastely set in clear gold and cherished,
Out of the Orient, unequaled,
Precious jewel without peer,
So round, so rare, so radiant,
So small, so smooth, so seductive,
That whenever I judged glimmering gems,
I set her apart, unimpeachable, priceless.
Alas, I lost her in earth’s green grass!
Long I searched for her in vain!
Now I languish alone, my heart gone cold.
For I lost my precious pearl without stain.
GILDAS
Gildas, also known as Gildas Sapiens (“Gildas the Wise”), was a 6th-century
British monk who is one of the first native writers of the British Isles we know
by name. Gildas is remembered for his scathing religious polemic De Excidio
et Conquestu Britanniae (“On the Ruin and Conquest of Britain” or simply
“On the Ruin of Britain”). The work has been dated to circa 480-550 AD.
“Alas! The nature of my complaint is the widespread destruction of all that
was good, followed by the wild proliferation of evil throughout the land.
Normally, I would grieve with my motherland in her travail and rejoice in her
revival. But for now I restrict myself to relating the sins of an indolent and
slothful race, rather than the feats of heroes. For ten years I kept my silence,
I confess, with much mental anguish, guilt and remorse, while I debated these
things within myself…” — Gildas, The Ruin of Britain, loose
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Gildas is also remembered for his “Lorica” (“Breastplate”):
“The Lorica of Loding” from the Book of Cerne
by Gildas
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Trinity in Unity, shield and preserve me!
Unity in Trinity, have mercy on me!
Preserve me, I pray, from all dangers:
dangers which threaten to overwhelm me
like surging sea waves;
neither let mortality
nor worldly vanity
sweep me away from the safe harbor of Your embrace!
Furthermore, I respectfully request:
send the exalted, mighty hosts of heaven!
Let them not abandon me
to be destroyed by my enemies,
but let them defend me always
with their mighty shields and bucklers.
Allow Your heavenly host
to advance before me:
Cherubim and Seraphim by the thousands,
led by the Archangels Michael and Gabriel!
Send, I implore, these living thrones,
these principalities, powers and Angels,
so that I may remain strong,
defended against the deluge of enemies
in life’s endless battles!
May Christ, whose righteous Visage frightens away foul throngs,
remain with me in a powerful covenant!
May God the Unconquerable Guardian
defend me on every side with His power!
Free my manacled limbs,
cover them with Your shielding grace,
leaving heaven-hurled demons helpless to hurt me,
to pierce me with their devious darts!
Lord Jesus Christ, be my sure armor, I pray!
Cover me, O God, with Your impenetrable breastplate!
Cover me so that, from head to toe,
no member is exposed, within or without;
so that life is not exorcized from my body
by plague, by fever, by weakness, or by suffering.
Until, with the gift of old age granted by God,
I depart this flesh, free from the stain of sin,
free to fly to those heavenly heights,
where, by the grace of God, I am borne in joy
into the cool retreats of His heavenly kingdom!
Amen
Johann Scheffler (1624-1677), also known as Johann Angelus Silesius, was a
German Catholic priest, physician, mystic and religious poet. He's
a bit later than most of the other poets on this page, but seems to fit in …
Unholy Trinity
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Man has three enemies:
himself, the world, and the devil.
Of these the first is, by far,
the most irresistible evil.
True Wealth
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
There is more to being rich
than merely having;
the wealthiest man can lose
everything not worth saving.
The Rose
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The rose merely blossoms
and never asks why:
heedless of her beauty,
careless of every eye.
The Rose
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The rose lack “reasons”
and merely sways with the seasons;
she has no ego
but whoever put on such a show?
Eternal Time
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Eternity is time,
time eternity,
except when we
are determined to "see."
Visions
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Our souls possess two eyes:
one examines time,
the other visions
eternal and sublime.
Godless
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
God is absolute Nothingness
beyond our sense of time and place;
the more we try to grasp Him,
The more He flees from our embrace.
The Source
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Water is pure and clean
when taken at the well-head:
but drink too far from the Source
and you may well end up dead.
Ceaseless Peace
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Unceasingly you seek
life's ceaseless wavelike motion;
I seek perpetual peace, all storms calmed.
Whose is the wiser notion?
Well Written
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Friend, cease!
Abandon all pretense!
You must yourself become
the Writing and the Sense.
Worm Food
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
No worm is buried
so deep within the soil
that God denies it food
as reward for its toil.
Mature Love
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
New love, like a sparkling wine, soon fizzes.
Mature love, calm and serene, abides.
God's Predicament
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
God cannot condemn those with whom he would dwell,
or He would have to join them in hell!
Clods
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A ruby
is not lovelier
than a dirt clod,
nor an angel
more glorious
than a frog.
The original poem below is based on my teenage misinterpretation of a Latin prayer …
Elegy for a little girl, lost
by Michael R. Burch
… qui laetificat juventutem meam …
She was the joy of my youth,
and now she is gone.
… requiescat in pace …
May she rest in peace.
… amen …
Amen.
I was touched by this Latin prayer, which I discovered in a novel I
read as a teenager. I later decided to incorporate it into a poem.
From what I now understand, “ad deum qui laetificat juventutem meam” means “to
the God who gives joy to my youth,” but I am sticking with my original
interpretation: a lament for a little girl at her funeral. The phrase can be
traced back to Saint Jerome's translation of Psalm 42 in the Vulgate Latin Bible (circa 385 AD).
Michael R. Burch Main Translation Page & Index:
The Best Poetry Translations of Michael R. Burch
Translation Pages in Roughly Chronological Order:
Enheduanna (circa 2285 BC) the first poet we know by name
The Love Song of Shu-Sin: The Earth's Oldest Love Poem?
Ancient Egyptian Harper's Songs
Ancient Japanese Waka and Haiku
Ancient Greek Epigrams and Epitaphs
Sappho of Lesbos (circa 600 BC) Longer Poems
Sappho of Lesbos Shorter Poems and Fragments
Antipater of Sidon (circa 150 BC)
Sulpicia Translations (circa 100 AD)
Martial Translations (circa 100 AD)
Song of Amergin (?) possibly the oldest poem from the English isles
Anglo-Saxon Poems
Anglo-Saxon Riddles and Kennings
Medieval Poetry Translations (658-1486)
Caedmon's Hymn (circa 658 AD) the oldest extant English poem
Bede's Death Song (circa 735 AD)
Ono no Komachi (circa 850 AD)
Deor's Lament (circa 890 AD)
Wulf and Eadwacer (circa 950 AD)
The Wife's Lament (circa 950 AD)
The Husband's Message (circa 950 AD)
The Ruin (circa 950 AD)
The Seafarer (circa 950 AD)
The Rhyming Poem (circa 950 AD)
Now skruketh rose and lylie flour (circa 1000 AD) is an early English rhyming poem
Middle English Poems
How Long the Night (circa 1200 AD)
Ballads
Sumer is Icumen in (circa 1250 AD)
Fowles in the Frith (circa 1250 AD)
Ich am of Irlaunde (circa 1250 AD)
Now Goeth Sun Under Wood (circa 1250 AD)
Pity Mary (circa 1250 AD)
Urdu Poetry (1253-present)
Amir Khusrow (1253-1325)
Dante (circa 1300 AD)
This World's Joy (circa 1300 AD)
Adam Lay Ybounden (circa 1400 AD)
Geoffrey Chaucer (circa 1400 AD)
I Have a Yong Suster (circa 1430 AD)
Charles d'Orleans (circa 1450 AD)
MICHELANGELO (1475-1564)
Sweet Rose of Virtue (circa 1500 AD)
Lament for the Makaris (circa 1500 AD)
Whoso List to Hunt (1503-1542)
Tom O'Bedlam's Song (circa 1600 AD)
Matsuo Basho (1644-1694)
Yosa Buson (1716-1764)
Thomas Chatterton (1752-1769) the first English Romantic poet
Mirza Ghalib (1797-1869)
Tegner's Drapa (1820)
Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867)
Paul Verlaine (1844-1896)
Arthur Rimbaud (1854-1891)
Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941)
Allama Iqbal (1877-1938)
Ber Horvitz (1895-1942)
Bertolt Brecht (1898-1956)
Miklós Radnót (1909-1944)
Primo Levi (1919-1987)
Paul Celan (1920-1970)
Jaun Elia (1931-2002)
Ahmad Faraz (1931-2008)
The following are links to other translations by Michael R. Burch:
Fukuda Chiyo-ni
Meleager
Oriental Masters of Haiku
Rainer Maria Rilke
Marina Tsvetaeva
Alexander Pushkin's tender, touching poem "I Love You"
Vera Pavlova
Renée Vivien
Allama Iqbal
Sandor Marai
Wladyslaw Szlengel
Saul Tchernichovsky
Robert Burns: Original Poems and Translations
The Seventh Romantic: Robert Burns
The following are links to other Michael R. Burch poetry pages:
Poetry by Michael R. Burch
Free Love Poems by Michael R. Burch
My Influences by Michael R. Burch
Michael R. Burch Early Poems Timeline
Bemused by Muses
Poems for Poets
Timeline of Rhyme
Michael R. Burch Free Verse
The Best Poetry Translations of Michael R. Burch
Best Poetry Translations sans links
The HyperTexts