| [Poems from the Vernon MS] | ||
“Allas, Bernard, þat I scholde se
Mi sone hongen bifore my feete!
I seide: ‘Sone, let me dye wiþ þe,
Er þen þou þi lyf for-lete!
Mi sone, my lord and al my gle,
Þou hast euere be Milde and swete:
But þou haue pite now of me,
Þer may no mon my Bale bete.’
Mi sone hongen bifore my feete!
I seide: ‘Sone, let me dye wiþ þe,
Er þen þou þi lyf for-lete!
Mi sone, my lord and al my gle,
Þou hast euere be Milde and swete:
But þou haue pite now of me,
Þer may no mon my Bale bete.’
“I criede: ‘Maudeleyn, help now—
Mi sone haþ loued ful wel þe:
Preie him þat I dye mow,
Þat I nout for-ȝeten be!
Seost þow, Maudeleyn, now,
Mi sone is honged on a tre,
Ȝit alyue am I and þow,
And þou ne preyest not for me!’
Mi sone haþ loued ful wel þe:
Preie him þat I dye mow,
Þat I nout for-ȝeten be!
Seost þow, Maudeleyn, now,
Mi sone is honged on a tre,
Ȝit alyue am I and þow,
And þou ne preyest not for me!’
“Maudeleyn seide: ‘I con no red,
Care haþ smiten myn herte sore;
I stonde, I seo my lord neih ded,
And þi wepyng greueþ me more.
Cum wiþ me! I wol þe lede
In to þe temple her be-fore.
Mi Mournynge is boþe feble & fede,
ffor þou hast now I-wept ful ȝore.’
Care haþ smiten myn herte sore;
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And þi wepyng greueþ me more.
Cum wiþ me! I wol þe lede
In to þe temple her be-fore.
Mi Mournynge is boþe feble & fede,
ffor þou hast now I-wept ful ȝore.’
“Ich askede þe Magdaleyn: ‘wher is þat place,
In pleyn, in valeye or in hille,
[Þer] I mai me huyde for eny cas,
Þat no serwe come me tille?
He þat al my Ioye was,
Now deþ of hym wol don his wille;
Con I me no beter solas
Þen for to wepe al my fille.’
In pleyn, in valeye or in hille,
[Þer] I mai me huyde for eny cas,
Þat no serwe come me tille?
He þat al my Ioye was,
Now deþ of hym wol don his wille;
Con I me no beter solas
Þen for to wepe al my fille.’
“Þe Maudeleyn cumfortede me þo,
To lede me þenne, heo seide, was best.
Care hedde smiten myn herte so
Þat I miȝte neuere haue no rest.
‘Soster, whoderward þat I go,
Þe wo of hym is in my Brest;
While my sone hongeþ so,
His peyne is in myn herte fest.
To lede me þenne, heo seide, was best.
Care hedde smiten myn herte so
Þat I miȝte neuere haue no rest.
‘Soster, whoderward þat I go,
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While my sone hongeþ so,
His peyne is in myn herte fest.
“‘I seih my sone, [my] ffader dere
Heiȝe hongen vp-on a tre;
I hedde blisse whon I him bere,
And now deþ for-doþ my gle:
Scholde I leten him hongen here
And lete my sone al-one be?
Maudeleyn, þenne vnkynde I were,
Ȝif he schulde honge & I schulde fle!
Heiȝe hongen vp-on a tre;
I hedde blisse whon I him bere,
And now deþ for-doþ my gle:
Scholde I leten him hongen here
And lete my sone al-one be?
Maudeleyn, þenne vnkynde I were,
Ȝif he schulde honge & I schulde fle!
“‘Vnder þe Cros leuen I-schille
And seo my sone hongen þer-on;
Of siȝt I nedde neuere my fille,
Whon I loke[d] hym vppon.’
I bad hem gon wher was heore wille,
Þe Maudeleyn and euerichon:
‘And my-seluen be-leuen I wole,
ffor I nil fle for no mon.’”
And seo my sone hongen þer-on;
Of siȝt I nedde neuere my fille,
Whon I loke[d] hym vppon.’
I bad hem gon wher was heore wille,
Þe Maudeleyn and euerichon:
‘And my-seluen be-leuen I wole,
ffor I nil fle for no mon.’”
| [Poems from the Vernon MS] | ||