Beleeue Me Now I Tell It For No Tale
Beleeue me now I tell it for no tale,
There is a Queene, or else a Goddesse t'one,
That without helpe of man, or any male
Conceaueth daughters by her selfe alone:
But at their birth, be it by night or day,
Some skilfull man, the midwiues part doth play.
When they be borne, and perfectly brought foorth,
Both olde and yong doe greatly them desire;
Their beautie and their power is of such woorth,
That all mens harts, therewith are set on fire:
And in all times they beare as great a sway
As if on earth, there were no queenes but they.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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It Seemes That Tunis Is An Auncient Towne
It seemes that Tunis is an auncient towne
Neere to the ruines of Carthage once so prowde,
Whose stately buildings now are cleane pulled downe,
And calmde her bruit, that sounded sometime lowde:
But roome, that is their auncient far away
Doth holde, and shall, though cities all decay.
Roome is more large, then spacious Millaine faire,
Or Venice or the Tartars great Camball,
Boeams three Prages, or Egypts rich Alcaire,
Or Quinset in Cataie biggest of them all,
And more I say, after the day of doome
Hell shall be no where, vnles it be in roome.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Epitaph Found In Otham Church, Kent
In God is all my trust.
Here lyeth the body of Thomas Hendley, esquier by degre,
The yongest sone of Jervis Hendley, of Corsworne in Cramkebrocke, Gent'man known to be,
Who gave a house, and also land, the Fifteene for to paye,
And to relieve the people pore of this parishe for aye
He died the day of from Him that Judas sold
A thousand five hundredth and ninety yere, being eightie nine yeres ould,
Protesting often before his death, when he his faith declared,
That onlye by the death of Christ he hope to be saved. (Query, spared!)
Christ is oure only Saviour.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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A Hymn to the Virgin
Of on that is so fayr and bright
Velut maris stella,
Brighter than the day is light,
Parens et puella:
Ic crie to the, thou see to me,
Levedy, preye thi Sone for me,
Tam pia,
That ic mote come to thee
Maria.
Al this world was for-lore
Eva peccatrice,
Tyl our Lord was y-bore
De te genetrice.
With
ave
it went away
Thuster nyth and cometh the day
Salutis;
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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Earthquake In London
For sothe this was a Lord to drede,
So sodeynly mad mon agast;
Of gold and selver thei tok non hede,
But out of ther houses ful sone thei past.
Chaumbres, chymeneys, al to-brast,
Chirches and castelles foule gon fare;
Pinacles, steples, to grounde hit cast;
And al was for warnyng to be ware.
. . . . . .
The rysyng of the comuynes in londe,
The pestilens, and the eorthe-qwake,
Theose threo thinges, I understonde,
Beoth tokenes the grete vengaunce and wrake
That schulde falle for synnes sake,
As this clerkes conne declare.
Now may we chese to leve or take,
For warnyng have we to be ware.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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May in the Green-Wood
In somer when the shawes be sheyne,
And leves be large and long,
Hit is full merry in feyre foreste
To here the foulys song.
To se the dere draw to the dale
And leve the hilles hee,
And shadow him in the leves grene
Under the green-wode tree.
Hit befell on Whitsontide
Early in a May mornyng,
The Soone up faire can shyne,
And the briddis mery can syng.
'This is a mery mornyng,' said Litulle Johne,
'Be Hym that dyed on tre;
A more mery man than I am one
Lyves not in Christiante.
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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Virelal
Alone walking, In thought pleyning,
And sore sighing, All desolate,
Me remembring Of my living,
My deth wishing Bothe erly and late.
Infortunate Is so my fate
That, wote ye what? Out of mesure
My lyf I hate Thus desperate;
In pore estate Do I endure.
Of other cure Am I nat sure,
Thus to endure Is hard, certain;
Such is my ure, I yow ensure;
What creature May have more pain?
My trouth so pleyn Is take in veyn,
And gret disdeyn In remembraunce;
Yet I full feyn Wold me compleyn
Me to absteyn From this penaunce.
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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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A Robyn, Jolly Robyn
A Robyn,
Jolly Robyn,
Tell me how thy leman doeth,
And thou shalt knowe of myn.
'My lady is unkynde, perde.'
Alack! why is she so?
'She loveth an other better than me;
And yet she will say no.'
I fynde no such doublenes;
I fynde women true;
My lady loveth me dowtles,
And will change for no newe.
'Thou art happy while that deeth last:
But I say, as I fynde,
That women's love is but a blast,
And torneth with the wynde.'
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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Lusty May
O LUSTY May, with Flora queen!
The balmy dropis from Phoebus sheen
Preluciand beams before the day:
By that Diana growis green
Through gladness of this lusty May.
Then Esperus, that is so bricht,
Til woful hairtis castis his light,
With bankis that bloomis on every brae;
And schouris are shed forth of their sicht
Through gladness of this lusty May.
Birdis on bewis of every birth,
Rejoicing notis makand their mirth
Richt plesantly upon the spray,
With flourishingis o'er field and firth
Through gladness of this lusty May.
All luvaris that are in care
To their ladies they do repair
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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Mermaid song IV
GREENLAND, Greenland, is a bonny, bonny place,
Whare there’s neither grief nor flowr,
Whare there’s neither grief nor tier to be
seen,
But hills and frost and snow.
Up starts the kemp o the ship,
Wi a psalm-book in his hand:
‘Swoom away, swoom away, my merry old boys,
For you’ll never see dry land.’
Up starts the gaucy cook,
And a weil gaucy cook was he;
‘I wad na gie aw my pans and my kettles
For aw the lords in the sea.’
Up starts the kemp o the ship,
Wi a bottle and a glass intil his hand;
‘Swoom away, swoom away, my merry old sailors,
For you’ll never see dry land.’
O the raging seas they row, row, row,
The stormy winds do blow,
As sune as he had gane up to the tap,
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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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