The Story of England by Robert Manning of Brunne, A.D. 1338. Edited from mss. at Lambeth Palace and the Inner Temple, by Frederick J. Furnivall |
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De probitate Irelgas, congnato Beduery. |
 | The Story of England |  |
De probitate Irelgas, congnato Beduery.
Sire Beduer cosyn hight Irelgas:
When he wyste þat harde cas,
What of his frendes, & of his kynde,
& oþer þe beste þat he myght fynde,
Þre hundred men wiþ helmes bright,
& wel horsed, & al wel dight,
When he had samned þem ilkone,
“Lordynge, to ȝow now make y my mone!
“At þis nedes helpeþ now,
“Of þo houndes þat myn em slow!
“Of Bokkus, þe kyng of Mede,
“Aspieþ hym wel in ilka stede!”
Þey serched ouer al vp & doun
Til þei seye his gonfanoun;
When þey hit seye, þider gon þey drawe,
On Kaliborne þey cried a þrawe.
Irelgas, noman wyþ-stod;
His em to venge he was ful wod;
He dredde non of alle þe renge,
But þat he myght þer his em venge;
fful wel hym halp þen his felawes alle,
Wyþ speres dide þey many on falle,
& on þem ride, þat doun were cast,
& Bokkus bataille trauailled fast.
When þey til his bataille were comen,
So wel þey dide, þat þorow þem nomen;
But Irelgas was euere byfore,
After hym his folk held wel þe score;
Syde & oþer, þey lefte no þyng
Vntil þey fond Bokkus þe kynge.
When Irelgas was wel auised,
His hors on hym his bridel wysed,
He teysed his dint, Bokkes to smyte,
Þe swerd was god, & wel wold byte,
Þe helm[it] clef, þe hauberk tar,
Þorow-out þe breste þe swerd hym schar,
I trowe þe soule to helle went,
But Irelgas by þe arm hym hent,
Þat þe body fel nought doun;
He leide hum ouer-þwert hys arsoun;
Þe knyght was god, þe hors was stronge,
He turnde þer-wiþ out of þe þronge;
Þe body to þer dragon bar,—
Wel holp his men þat aboute hym war,—
Bysyde his em þe body þrew,
& on peces hym al to-hew;
Al to-hewen þer he hym let;
Houndes, foules, his body ete.
When he wyste þat harde cas,
What of his frendes, & of his kynde,
& oþer þe beste þat he myght fynde,
Þre hundred men wiþ helmes bright,
& wel horsed, & al wel dight,
When he had samned þem ilkone,
“Lordynge, to ȝow now make y my mone!
“At þis nedes helpeþ now,
“Of þo houndes þat myn em slow!
“Of Bokkus, þe kyng of Mede,
“Aspieþ hym wel in ilka stede!”
Þey serched ouer al vp & doun
Til þei seye his gonfanoun;
When þey hit seye, þider gon þey drawe,
475
Irelgas, noman wyþ-stod;
His em to venge he was ful wod;
He dredde non of alle þe renge,
But þat he myght þer his em venge;
fful wel hym halp þen his felawes alle,
Wyþ speres dide þey many on falle,
& on þem ride, þat doun were cast,
& Bokkus bataille trauailled fast.
When þey til his bataille were comen,
So wel þey dide, þat þorow þem nomen;
But Irelgas was euere byfore,
After hym his folk held wel þe score;
Syde & oþer, þey lefte no þyng
Vntil þey fond Bokkus þe kynge.
When Irelgas was wel auised,
His hors on hym his bridel wysed,
He teysed his dint, Bokkes to smyte,
Þe swerd was god, & wel wold byte,
Þe helm[it] clef, þe hauberk tar,
Þorow-out þe breste þe swerd hym schar,
I trowe þe soule to helle went,
But Irelgas by þe arm hym hent,
Þat þe body fel nought doun;
He leide hum ouer-þwert hys arsoun;
Þe knyght was god, þe hors was stronge,
He turnde þer-wiþ out of þe þronge;
Þe body to þer dragon bar,—
Wel holp his men þat aboute hym war,—
Bysyde his em þe body þrew,
& on peces hym al to-hew;
Al to-hewen þer he hym let;
Houndes, foules, his body ete.
476
When Irelgas had don þat pris,
“ffelawes,” he seyde, “graunt mercis!
“Turne we ȝut on þem a-geyns,
“& folewe faste o þe Romeyns,
“& on þise houndes þat mys byleue,
“Þat oure Cristene so mykel greue!”
Þey turnde ageyn as men hardy;
Þen myghte men here noise & cry;
Swerdes, helmes, men mighte se glyder,
& sparklyng as þey smyte to-gyder.
Holdyn, þe Erl of fflaundres, held
Gaunt & Bruges vnder his scheld;
Of a bataille he was cheftayne,
He countred wyþ Alyfatyn of Spayne.
So longe þat on þat oþer assailled,
& ilk on oþer so trauailled,
Þat slayn was sire Alyfatyn,
& slayn was þe Erl Holdyn.
“ffelawes,” he seyde, “graunt mercis!
“Turne we ȝut on þem a-geyns,
“& folewe faste o þe Romeyns,
“& on þise houndes þat mys byleue,
“Þat oure Cristene so mykel greue!”
Þey turnde ageyn as men hardy;
Þen myghte men here noise & cry;
Swerdes, helmes, men mighte se glyder,
& sparklyng as þey smyte to-gyder.
Holdyn, þe Erl of fflaundres, held
Gaunt & Bruges vnder his scheld;
Of a bataille he was cheftayne,
He countred wyþ Alyfatyn of Spayne.
So longe þat on þat oþer assailled,
& ilk on oþer so trauailled,
Þat slayn was sire Alyfatyn,
& slayn was þe Erl Holdyn.
Lyger, þe kyng of Babilloyne,
Rod to þe Erl of Boloyne:
Slayn was þe erl, slayn was þe kyng,
& oþer þre mad þeir endynge,
Baruk, Vrgens, & sire Cursal;
Wiþ ilk was gret folk wyþ-al.
Sire Vrgens of Baþe was sire,
& Baruk of Circestre & Wilteschire,
& Cursal, Erl of Chestre was;
Þise were slayn þer at þat pas.
Þer men gaf bak, & turnde agayn,
& com til Ohel & til Wawayn:—
Swilk two knyghte, ful wel þou leue,
Wer non syn Adam was, & Eue;—
Þer men & þey were gode ilkon,
In pres, in pleyn, þey douted non.
Þo þat first on Bretons brak,
Þeir cheftayns slowe, dide þem gyue bak;
Alle þo þey slowe, & dide þem fle,
& turnde þem ouer, þat men myght se.
So harde strokes þe Bretons gaf,
Þe Romayns route al ouer-haf,
Þat þe Romains, wold ho, ne wolde,
fflede vnto þe Egle of golde.
(Egle ys ern on Englische roun;
Þat was þe Romayns gunphanoun.)
Þere þey fond þe Emperour,
& of al Rome þer was þe flour.
When þey seye þey come so ner,
Þe Romains were þem ful auster;
Nere herd þey seye, ne sawe hit writen,
Swilk a stour to Romayns smyten,
A doughty erl þat highte Kynmar,
Wiþ sire Ohel þat tyme was þar;
Don he hadde gret vasselage,
Þe Romayns slayn at ilka stage;
Mighte no Romayn hym a-scape,
Þat to þe deþ he dide hym rape.
A fotman þenne his bowe vp drow,
& Erl Kynmar atte lasste he slow,
& two þousand of þe Bretouns,
Wiþoute men of grete renouns.
Rod to þe Erl of Boloyne:
Slayn was þe erl, slayn was þe kyng,
& oþer þre mad þeir endynge,
Baruk, Vrgens, & sire Cursal;
Wiþ ilk was gret folk wyþ-al.
Sire Vrgens of Baþe was sire,
& Baruk of Circestre & Wilteschire,
& Cursal, Erl of Chestre was;
Þise were slayn þer at þat pas.
Þer men gaf bak, & turnde agayn,
477
Swilk two knyghte, ful wel þou leue,
Wer non syn Adam was, & Eue;—
Þer men & þey were gode ilkon,
In pres, in pleyn, þey douted non.
Þo þat first on Bretons brak,
Þeir cheftayns slowe, dide þem gyue bak;
Alle þo þey slowe, & dide þem fle,
& turnde þem ouer, þat men myght se.
So harde strokes þe Bretons gaf,
Þe Romayns route al ouer-haf,
Þat þe Romains, wold ho, ne wolde,
fflede vnto þe Egle of golde.
(Egle ys ern on Englische roun;
Þat was þe Romayns gunphanoun.)
Þere þey fond þe Emperour,
& of al Rome þer was þe flour.
When þey seye þey come so ner,
Þe Romains were þem ful auster;
Nere herd þey seye, ne sawe hit writen,
Swilk a stour to Romayns smyten,
A doughty erl þat highte Kynmar,
Wiþ sire Ohel þat tyme was þar;
Don he hadde gret vasselage,
Þe Romayns slayn at ilka stage;
Mighte no Romayn hym a-scape,
Þat to þe deþ he dide hym rape.
A fotman þenne his bowe vp drow,
& Erl Kynmar atte lasste he slow,
& two þousand of þe Bretouns,
Wiþoute men of grete renouns.
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