 | Religious Lyrics of the XVth Century |  |
6. Filius Regis Mortuus Est
As Reson Rywlyde my Rechyles mynde,
by wayes & wyldernes as y hadde wente,
a solempne cite fortunyd me to fynde;
to turne þer-to wes myne entente.
I met a mayde at þe citeys ende,
snobbynge & syȝynge sche wes ny schente,
a fayrer foode had y not kende.
hurre herre, hure face, sche all to-rente,
Sche tuggyd & tere with gret turment;
sche brake hure skynne boþe body & breste,
and saide þese wordys euer as sche wente,
‘filius Regis mortuus est.’
by wayes & wyldernes as y hadde wente,
a solempne cite fortunyd me to fynde;
to turne þer-to wes myne entente.
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snobbynge & syȝynge sche wes ny schente,
a fayrer foode had y not kende.
hurre herre, hure face, sche all to-rente,
Sche tuggyd & tere with gret turment;
sche brake hure skynne boþe body & breste,
and saide þese wordys euer as sche wente,
‘filius Regis mortuus est.’
‘The kyngis sone,’ sche saide, ‘is dede,
and kynge of kyngis his fadur is,
and y am his modur, þe well of rede.
my sone is go, my Ioy & my blys.
Alas! y sawe my dere chylde blede;
he may not speke to modur his.
I lullyd hym, y lapped him, y wolde him fede—
so cruelly wes neuyr childe slayn y-wys.
Ther wes neuer modur þat hedde sayn þis
but sche wolde wepe, þawe sche louyd him leste.
no wondur þawe y be full of carefulnys,
for filius regis mortuus est.
and kynge of kyngis his fadur is,
and y am his modur, þe well of rede.
my sone is go, my Ioy & my blys.
Alas! y sawe my dere chylde blede;
he may not speke to modur his.
I lullyd hym, y lapped him, y wolde him fede—
so cruelly wes neuyr childe slayn y-wys.
Ther wes neuer modur þat hedde sayn þis
but sche wolde wepe, þawe sche louyd him leste.
no wondur þawe y be full of carefulnys,
for filius regis mortuus est.
Ther wes neuer modur þat lefte suche a fode be-hynde,
so petuesly slayn withoute trespas,
but sche wolde haue loste hur mynde,
and often tymes haue cryedde “alas!”
And y, þat knywe neuer of man-is kynde,
y bare him in my body, clene mayde as y was.
suche be þer no mo as clerkis canne fynde;
þan am y sche þat mooste cause has.
Throwe Ierlm stretis a man myȝte trace
þe blode of my childe like a beeste.
suche wes myne happe, suche wes my grace,
for filius regis mortuus est.
so petuesly slayn withoute trespas,
but sche wolde haue loste hur mynde,
and often tymes haue cryedde “alas!”
And y, þat knywe neuer of man-is kynde,
y bare him in my body, clene mayde as y was.
suche be þer no mo as clerkis canne fynde;
þan am y sche þat mooste cause has.
Throwe Ierlm stretis a man myȝte trace
þe blode of my childe like a beeste.
suche wes myne happe, suche wes my grace,
for filius regis mortuus est.
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ffilius Regis, myne owne dere chylde,
y say him honge on þe crosse in my syȝte;
y lokyd on hym and hym behylde.
sone, se þi modur, a woful wyȝte.
I sownedde, I fyll downe in þe feelde,
I wolde haue spoke but y ne myȝte.
I snobbudde, I sykyd, I kowde not welde;
sorowe smote at myne herte, y fyll downe ryȝte.
My sone sawe his modur þus y-dyȝte,
so rufully his yes on me he keste,
as who seyth “fare wel, my modur bryȝte,
ffilius Regis mortuus est.”
y say him honge on þe crosse in my syȝte;
y lokyd on hym and hym behylde.
sone, se þi modur, a woful wyȝte.
I sownedde, I fyll downe in þe feelde,
I wolde haue spoke but y ne myȝte.
I snobbudde, I sykyd, I kowde not welde;
sorowe smote at myne herte, y fyll downe ryȝte.
My sone sawe his modur þus y-dyȝte,
so rufully his yes on me he keste,
as who seyth “fare wel, my modur bryȝte,
ffilius Regis mortuus est.”
I cried þo died myne owne sone dere;
I swette, y sownydde, y saide “alas!”
no wondur þowe y carefull were—
my fadur, my broþer, my spouse he was,
Myne helpe, myne socour and all my chere.
nowe without broþer and spowse y moste hens pas,
fadurles & modurles y am lafte here,
as a woman forsake þat no goode has.
Gabriel, þu dedeste calle me full of grace;
nowe full of sorowe þu me seyste!
þe terys tryllyd downe be my face,
ffilius Regis mortuus est.
I swette, y sownydde, y saide “alas!”
no wondur þowe y carefull were—
my fadur, my broþer, my spouse he was,
Myne helpe, myne socour and all my chere.
nowe without broþer and spowse y moste hens pas,
fadurles & modurles y am lafte here,
as a woman forsake þat no goode has.
Gabriel, þu dedeste calle me full of grace;
nowe full of sorowe þu me seyste!
þe terys tryllyd downe be my face,
ffilius Regis mortuus est.
[I l]okyd upp on-to my childe,
y criede one þe Iues & bade hange
þe modyr by þe childe þat neuer was fylyde.
o dethe, a-lasse! þu doyste me wrange!
My sone þu sleyste, alasse þe whyle!
come, sle his modur, why taryeste so longe?
þu morþer-man, why arte þu so vyle?
come to his modur þat dethe wolde fonge.
Thow sleyste my sone with paynys stronge,
come sle his modur at my requeste,
for y may synge a sorowfull songe,
filius Regis mortuus est.
y criede one þe Iues & bade hange
þe modyr by þe childe þat neuer was fylyde.
o dethe, a-lasse! þu doyste me wrange!
My sone þu sleyste, alasse þe whyle!
come, sle his modur, why taryeste so longe?
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come to his modur þat dethe wolde fonge.
Thow sleyste my sone with paynys stronge,
come sle his modur at my requeste,
for y may synge a sorowfull songe,
filius Regis mortuus est.
Thou erth, I reclayme & appele,
That thou recewedst that gentill blod!
Thou stone, howe durst thou be so frayll
To be a mortes wherin his crosse stode?
Stone he made & erth eche dele
That bene regementis to the Rode.
Your maker ye sle; ye knowe righte well
he did neuer evill but euer did good.
He was euer meke & myld of mode,
Nowe lieth he wounded like a best.
Alas! my babe, my lyves fode
That filius Regis mortuus est.
That thou recewedst that gentill blod!
Thou stone, howe durst thou be so frayll
To be a mortes wherin his crosse stode?
Stone he made & erth eche dele
That bene regementis to the Rode.
Your maker ye sle; ye knowe righte well
he did neuer evill but euer did good.
He was euer meke & myld of mode,
Nowe lieth he wounded like a best.
Alas! my babe, my lyves fode
That filius Regis mortuus est.
Thou tree, thou crosse, howe durst thou be
The Instrument to hong thy maker soo?
Vnto his ffader [y] may appele the.
Thou were the cause of my sonnes wo—
No cause, but help that it so be.
Tre, Cry mercy, that art my ffoo!
Had thei ordeyned A rode for me
To haue hanged me thei had well doo
[But what may y seie, whidir schal y go?]
A Tree hath hanged A kyng full prest—
Suche kyngis there be no moo—
ffor filius Regis mortuus est.
The Instrument to hong thy maker soo?
Vnto his ffader [y] may appele the.
Thou were the cause of my sonnes wo—
No cause, but help that it so be.
Tre, Cry mercy, that art my ffoo!
Had thei ordeyned A rode for me
To haue hanged me thei had well doo
[But what may y seie, whidir schal y go?]
A Tree hath hanged A kyng full prest—
Suche kyngis there be no moo—
ffor filius Regis mortuus est.
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Thou scourge, with cordis thou brak the skyne
With hard knottis, I crye vpone the!
Ye bete my sonne that neuer did synne;
Why bete þou hym & spare me,
Made he nott the? thou woldest not blyne,
Thou teryst hys skynne & wold nott lett.
Thou myghte nott sett the poynt of a pyne
Vpon hole skynne, so thou hym bett.
All blody was the brighte of his blee
Thou madist it blak or thou woldest sest.
ffader, one thi sonne haue pety,
ffor filius Regis mortuus est.
With hard knottis, I crye vpone the!
Ye bete my sonne that neuer did synne;
Why bete þou hym & spare me,
Made he nott the? thou woldest not blyne,
Thou teryst hys skynne & wold nott lett.
Thou myghte nott sett the poynt of a pyne
Vpon hole skynne, so thou hym bett.
All blody was the brighte of his blee
Thou madist it blak or thou woldest sest.
ffader, one thi sonne haue pety,
ffor filius Regis mortuus est.
Cursyd Iues, why dude ye þusse?
how durste ye sle youre savyoure?
When he schall deme þen schall ye curse;
ye canne not hyde you from his scharpe schoure.
All oþer creaturys þey ar petuvsse:
þe sone, þe clowdys, for his doloure,
yn tokenynge þei changyd & mornyd tyll vsse
When ye dide hym þis dyshonowre.
The erthe quakyd, bothe temple & towre,
þat bare you synfull proude & preste.
þe planetis changed & made dolowre—
filius Regis mortuus est.
how durste ye sle youre savyoure?
When he schall deme þen schall ye curse;
ye canne not hyde you from his scharpe schoure.
All oþer creaturys þey ar petuvsse:
þe sone, þe clowdys, for his doloure,
yn tokenynge þei changyd & mornyd tyll vsse
When ye dide hym þis dyshonowre.
The erthe quakyd, bothe temple & towre,
þat bare you synfull proude & preste.
þe planetis changed & made dolowre—
filius Regis mortuus est.
Mortuus est my soveren lorde,
ded is my dere childe, alasse!
nowe y may walke in þis falce worlde
as a wrecchyd wyȝte þat wantyth grace.
All þis y say to be recorde;
y myȝte no lengur loke hym in þe face.
And þus y came from caluarye-warde
Wepynge and waylynge þat y bore wasse.
yf eny man love me len me a plase
þat y may wepe my fylle and reste,
and euer more to crye “alasse, alasse!
filius Regis mortuus est”.
ded is my dere childe, alasse!
nowe y may walke in þis falce worlde
as a wrecchyd wyȝte þat wantyth grace.
All þis y say to be recorde;
y myȝte no lengur loke hym in þe face.
And þus y came from caluarye-warde
Wepynge and waylynge þat y bore wasse.
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þat y may wepe my fylle and reste,
and euer more to crye “alasse, alasse!
filius Regis mortuus est”.
Nowe, fadur of heuyns & celestiall leche,
y comende all my gydance to þi grete myȝte,
þi grace and power, hertely y beseche
onys or þat y dye, of my swete sone to have a syȝte.
þo sownyde a voice from heuen in fay,
yn-to þat vertuys virginis breste,
“þu schalte se þi swete sone and say,
ffilius Regis is a-lyve et non mortuus est.”’
y comende all my gydance to þi grete myȝte,
þi grace and power, hertely y beseche
onys or þat y dye, of my swete sone to have a syȝte.
þo sownyde a voice from heuen in fay,
yn-to þat vertuys virginis breste,
“þu schalte se þi swete sone and say,
ffilius Regis is a-lyve et non mortuus est.”’
Explicit.
| Religious Lyrics of the XVth Century | |