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147. The Day of Life—Night Comes Soon!
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 | Religious Lyrics of the XVth Century |  |
147. The Day of Life—Night Comes Soon!
As I went one my playing,
Vndure an holt vppone an hylle,
I sawe an ovld mane hovre make mornyng,—
Witt sykyng sovre he sayd me tylle:
‘Sum tyme þis worde was at my wylle,
Witt reches and witt ryallte,
And now hit [is] layd doun ful styll;
This word ys but a wannyte.
Vndure an holt vppone an hylle,
I sawe an ovld mane hovre make mornyng,—
Witt sykyng sovre he sayd me tylle:
‘Sum tyme þis worde was at my wylle,
Witt reches and witt ryallte,
And now hit [is] layd doun ful styll;
This word ys but a wannyte.
231
‘That one þe morrov when hit [is] fayre & clere,
After none hit wendys awaye,
And commyth to the nyȝt as hit was ere:
This word ys but a daye:
Soo for ryȝt all owre lewyng heyre;
ffrow chyldwood vnto mannys degre,
Owre enddyng drawyt nere and nere,—
This word ys but a wannyte.
After none hit wendys awaye,
And commyth to the nyȝt as hit was ere:
This word ys but a daye:
Soo for ryȝt all owre lewyng heyre;
ffrow chyldwood vnto mannys degre,
Owre enddyng drawyt nere and nere,—
This word ys but a wannyte.
‘I leccone my lyfe vnto the morrow-tyde;
When I was chyld so bare I-bore,
ffor me my modyr soffyrd gret sovre,
Witt gronttyng and weppyng was I bore;
But þow one me was wem ne hore;
Sethe in sin I have I-be,
Now I am olde, I may no more,—
This word is but a wannyte.
When I was chyld so bare I-bore,
ffor me my modyr soffyrd gret sovre,
Witt gronttyng and weppyng was I bore;
But þow one me was wem ne hore;
Sethe in sin I have I-be,
Now I am olde, I may no more,—
This word is but a wannyte.
‘At myde-morroo-daye I lernnyd to goo,
And play as chyldorne done in strete;
As chyldwood me thoȝt & tavȝt I dyde þoo,
Witt my fellous to fyȝt and beyt.
What I dede me þoȝt hit swete,
Ryȝt as chyldhod taȝt hit me;
Now may I say witt terrus weete,
This word is but a wannyte.
And play as chyldorne done in strete;
As chyldwood me thoȝt & tavȝt I dyde þoo,
Witt my fellous to fyȝt and beyt.
What I dede me þoȝt hit swete,
Ryȝt as chyldhod taȝt hit me;
Now may I say witt terrus weete,
This word is but a wannyte.
‘At vnder-day to skole I was I-sete,
To lerne good as chyldern dothe,
But when my master woold me bete,
I wold hym cowrs & wax folle rowthe:
To lerne good I was full lovthe,
I þoȝt one play and gollytte;
Now for to say þe sothe,
This world is but a wannyte.
To lerne good as chyldern dothe,
But when my master woold me bete,
I wold hym cowrs & wax folle rowthe:
To lerne good I was full lovthe,
I þoȝt one play and gollytte;
Now for to say þe sothe,
This world is but a wannyte.
232
‘At mydday I was dobbyt a knyȝte,
In trvthe I lernnyd for to ryed;
There was none soo bold a wyȝte,
That in battayll durst me abyde.
Where be-commyȝt all owre pryd,
Owre Iollytte and fayre bovtte,
ffrow dethe I may not me here hyd,—
This word ys but a wannyte.
In trvthe I lernnyd for to ryed;
There was none soo bold a wyȝte,
That in battayll durst me abyde.
Where be-commyȝt all owre pryd,
Owre Iollytte and fayre bovtte,
ffrow dethe I may not me here hyd,—
This word ys but a wannyte.
‘At nonne I was crounyd a kynge,
All þis world was at my wylle;
Euer to lyvfe here was my lykynge,
And alle my lust I wold fulfyll:
Now age is croppyn one me ful styll,
He makyt me hore, blake, and bowe;
I goo all dounward witt þe hylle,—
This world ys but a wannyte.
All þis world was at my wylle;
Euer to lyvfe here was my lykynge,
And alle my lust I wold fulfyll:
Now age is croppyn one me ful styll,
He makyt me hore, blake, and bowe;
I goo all dounward witt þe hylle,—
This world ys but a wannyte.
‘At myd-vndure-none wondorly I waxe,
My lust and lykyng hit went away,
ffrom þe world my chere ys goone,
ffrom ryalte and ryche a-raye:
Owre lewyng ys but one daye,
Aȝeynst þe world þat euyre schal be;
Be þis matter I dare well saye,
This word ys but a wannyte.
My lust and lykyng hit went away,
ffrom þe world my chere ys goone,
ffrom ryalte and ryche a-raye:
Owre lewyng ys but one daye,
Aȝeynst þe world þat euyre schal be;
Be þis matter I dare well saye,
This word ys but a wannyte.
‘At ewynsong tyme I was so cold,
That now I goo all by a stafe,
There-fore is dethe one me so bold,
And for his hyre he dothe me crawfe:
When I am dede and layd in grawe,
Then no þing schall save me,
But well and woo þat I done havfe,—
This word ys but a wannyte.
That now I goo all by a stafe,
There-fore is dethe one me so bold,
And for his hyre he dothe me crawfe:
When I am dede and layd in grawe,
Then no þing schall save me,
But well and woo þat I done havfe,—
This word ys but a wannyte.
233
‘Now ys þis day commyn to þe nyȝt;
I hawe lost my lewyng;
A dredefull payne ys for me dyȝt,
In cold claye þere-in to clynge.’
As I went on my playing,
Vndure an holt by a tre,
This hard I an old man mak mournyng,—
This world ys but a wannyte!
I hawe lost my lewyng;
A dredefull payne ys for me dyȝt,
In cold claye þere-in to clynge.’
As I went on my playing,
Vndure an holt by a tre,
This hard I an old man mak mournyng,—
This world ys but a wannyte!
In domino confydo. Amen, Dico vobis.
| Religious Lyrics of the XVth Century | |