 | Religious Lyrics of the XVth Century |  |
MARIAN LAMENTS.
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.
7. An Appeal to all Mothers
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Off alle women þat euer were borneThat berys childur, abyde and se
How my son liggus me beforne
Vpon my kne, takyn fro tre.
Your childur ȝe dawnse vpon your kne
With laȝyng, kyssyng and mery chere;
Be-holde my childe, be-holde now me,
ffor now liggus ded my dere son, dere.
2
O woman, woman, wel is the,Thy childis cap þu dose vpon;
þu pykys his here, be-holdys his ble,
þu wost not wele when þu hast done.
But euer, alas! I make my mone
To se my sonnys hed as hit is here;
I pyke owt thornys be on & on,
ffor now liggus ded my dere son, dere.
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3
O woman, a chaplet chosyn þu hasThy childe to were, hit dose þe gret likyng,
þu pynnes hit on with gret solas;
And I sitte with my son sore wepyng,
His chaplet is thornys sore prickyng,
His mouth I kys with a carfull chere—
I sitte wepyng and þu syngyng,
ffor now liggus ded my dere son, dere.
4
O woman, loke to me agayne,That playes & kisses your childur pappys.
To se my son I haue gret payne,
In his brest so gret gap is
And on his body so mony swappys.
With blody lippys I kis hym here,
Alas! full hard me thynk me happys,
ffor now liggus ded my dere son, dere.
5
O woman, þu takis þi childe be þe handAnd seis, ‘my son gif me a stroke!’
My sonnys handis ar sore bledand;
To loke on hym me list not layke.
His handis he suffyrd for þi sake
Thus to be boryd with nayle & speyre;
When þu makes myrth gret sorow I make,
ffor now liggus ded my dere son, dere.
6
Be-holde women when þat ȝe playAnd hase your childur on knees daunsand;
Ye fele ther fete, so fete ar thay
And to your sight ful wel likand.
But þe most fyngur of any hande
Thorow my sonnys fete I may put here
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ffor now liggus ded my dere son, dere.
7
Therfor, women, be town & streteYour childur handis when ȝe be-holde,—
Theyr brest, þeire body and þeire fete—
Then gode hit were on my son thynk ȝe wolde,
How care has made my hert full colde
To se my son, with nayle and speyre,
With scourge and thornys many-folde,
Woundit and ded, my dere son, dere.
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þu hase þi son full holl and sounde,And myn is ded vpon my kne;
thy childe is lawse and myn is bonde;
Thy childe is an life & myn ded is he—
Whi was this oȝt but for þe?
ffor my childe trespast neuer here.
Me thynk ȝe be holdyne to wepe with me,
ffor now liggus ded my dere son, dere.
9
Wepe with me, both man and wyfe,My childe is youres & lovys yow wele.
If your childe had lost his life
ȝe wolde wepe at euery mele;
But for my son wepe ȝe neuer a del.
If ȝe luf youres, myne has no pere;
He sendis youris both hap and hele
And for ȝow dyed my dere son, dere.
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Now, alle wymmen þat has your wytteAnd sees my childe on my knees ded,
Wepe not for yours but wepe for hit,
And ȝe shall haue ful mycull mede.
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Raþer or þat ȝe damned were.
I pray yow alle to hym take hede,
ffor now liggus ded my dere son, dere.
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ffare-wel, woman, I may no moreffor drede of deth reherse his payne.
ȝe may lagh when ȝe list & I wepe sore,
That may ȝe se and ȝe loke to me agayne.
To luf my son and ȝe be fayne
I wille luff yours with hert entere,
And he shall brynge your childur & yow sertayne
To blisse wher is my dere son, dere,
Explicit fabula
8. O Thou, with Heart of Stone
Thou synfull man of resoun þat walkest here vp & downe,
Cast þy respeccyoun one my mortall countenaunce.
Se my blody terys fro my herte roote rebowne,
My dysmayd body chased from all plesaunce,
Perysshed wyth þe swerd moste dedly of vengaunce.
Loke one my sorofull chere & haue ther-of pytee,
Be-wailynge my woo & payne, & lerne to wepe wyth me.
Cast þy respeccyoun one my mortall countenaunce.
Se my blody terys fro my herte roote rebowne,
My dysmayd body chased from all plesaunce,
Perysshed wyth þe swerd moste dedly of vengaunce.
Loke one my sorofull chere & haue ther-of pytee,
Be-wailynge my woo & payne, & lerne to wepe wyth me.
Yf þu can not wepe for my perplexed heuynesse,
Yet wepe for my dere sone, which one my lap lieth ded
Wyth woundis Innumerable for þy wyckednesse,
Made redempcyoun wyth hys blood, spared not hys manhed.
Then þe loue of hym & mornynge of my maydenhed
Schuld chaunge thyne herte, & þu lyst behold & see
Hys deth & my sorow, & lerne to wepe wyth me.
Yet wepe for my dere sone, which one my lap lieth ded
Wyth woundis Innumerable for þy wyckednesse,
Made redempcyoun wyth hys blood, spared not hys manhed.
Then þe loue of hym & mornynge of my maydenhed
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Hys deth & my sorow, & lerne to wepe wyth me.
Thyne herte so indurat is þat þu cane not wepe
ffor my sonnes deth ne for my lamentacyoun?
Than wepe for þy synnes, when þu wakest of þy slepe
And remembre hys kyndnes, hys payne, hys passioun,
And fere not to call to me for supportacyoun.
I am thy frend vnfeyned & euer haue be;
Loue my son, kepe well hys lawes, & come dwell wyth me.
ffor my sonnes deth ne for my lamentacyoun?
Than wepe for þy synnes, when þu wakest of þy slepe
And remembre hys kyndnes, hys payne, hys passioun,
And fere not to call to me for supportacyoun.
I am thy frend vnfeyned & euer haue be;
Loue my son, kepe well hys lawes, & come dwell wyth me.
9. Who cannot Weep come Learn of me
Sodenly afraide, half waking, half slepyng
and gretly dismayde, A wooman sate weepyng,
and gretly dismayde, A wooman sate weepyng,
With fauoure in hir face ferr passyng my Reason,
And of hir sore weepyng this was the enchesone:
Hir soon in hir lap lay, she seid, slayne by treason.
Yif wepyng myght ripe bee it seemyd þan in season.
Ihesu, so she sobbid,
So hir soone was bobbid
and of his lif robbid,
Saying þies wordis as I say þee,
‘Who cannot wepe come lerne at me.’
And of hir sore weepyng this was the enchesone:
Hir soon in hir lap lay, she seid, slayne by treason.
Yif wepyng myght ripe bee it seemyd þan in season.
Ihesu, so she sobbid,
So hir soone was bobbid
and of his lif robbid,
Saying þies wordis as I say þee,
‘Who cannot wepe come lerne at me.’
I said I cowd not wepe I was so harde hartid:
Shee answerd me with wordys shortly þat smarted,
‘Lo! nature shall move þee thou must be converted
Thyne owne fadder þis nyght is deed’,—lo þus she Thwarted—
‘So my soon is bobbid
& of his lif robbid.’
forsooth þan I sobbid,
Veryfying þe wordis she seid to me.
Who cannot wepe may lerne at þee.
Shee answerd me with wordys shortly þat smarted,
‘Lo! nature shall move þee thou must be converted
Thyne owne fadder þis nyght is deed’,—lo þus she Thwarted—
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& of his lif robbid.’
forsooth þan I sobbid,
Veryfying þe wordis she seid to me.
Who cannot wepe may lerne at þee.
‘Now breke hert, I the pray, this cors lith so rulye,
So betyn, so wowndid, entreted so Iewlye,
What wiȝt may me behold & wepe nat? noon truly!
To see my deed dere soone lygh bleedyng lo! this newlye.’
Ay stil she sobbid
so hir soone was bobbed
& of his lif robbid,
Newyng þe wordis as I say thee,
‘Who cannot wepe com lerne at me.’
So betyn, so wowndid, entreted so Iewlye,
What wiȝt may me behold & wepe nat? noon truly!
To see my deed dere soone lygh bleedyng lo! this newlye.’
Ay stil she sobbid
so hir soone was bobbed
& of his lif robbid,
Newyng þe wordis as I say thee,
‘Who cannot wepe com lerne at me.’
On me she caste hire ey, said ‘see, mane, thy brothir!’
She kissid hym & said, ‘swete, am I not thy modir?’
In sownyng she fill there, it wolde be non othir;
I not which more deedly, the toone or the tothir.
Yit she revived & sobbid,
so hire soon was bobbid
& of his lif robbid.
‘Who cannot wepe,’ this was the laye,
& with þat word she vanysht Away.
She kissid hym & said, ‘swete, am I not thy modir?’
In sownyng she fill there, it wolde be non othir;
I not which more deedly, the toone or the tothir.
Yit she revived & sobbid,
so hire soon was bobbid
& of his lif robbid.
‘Who cannot wepe,’ this was the laye,
& with þat word she vanysht Away.
10. Our Lady's Imprecation
1
Listyns, lordyngus, to my taleAnd ȝe shall here of on story,
Is bettur then ouþer wyne or ale
Þat euer was made in this cuntry,
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ychan a deth to hym þei drest.
‘Alas!’ seyd Mary þat is so fre,
‘þat chylde is ded þat soke my brest.’
2
‘O Judas how durst þu be so boldeTo betray my son to any iewe?
ffor xxx d. þu hym solde,
fful wel þu wist hit was not dewe.
Sore of þat bargan þu may rew,
þer-for þi saule in hel is drest.
Wo worth þe tyme þat I þe knew!
the childe is ded þat soke my brest.
3
‘þer-for þi sorow shall never slake,Traytur, for þi fals trayng.
þu made þe Iewys my son to take,
Caytef cursid, with þi kyssyng;
þer-for in hell shalle þu hyng,
þe fendis in fyre þi flessh shall fest.
Euer wo worth þi vpspryngyng!
þe childe is ded þat soke my brest.
4
‘Among fendys þat be felleThy body bonys shal be brent,
þi dwellyng þer-for shalbe in hell,
With lucifere þi life is lent.
þu made my son on rode be rent,
þer rewth it was to se hym rest.
thus, traitur, þorow þi falles assent
the childe is ded þat soke my brest.
5
‘Therfor, iewys, worth yow shame!Off my richnesse ȝe haue me robbyd,
ȝe thoȝt ȝe hade a full gode game,
When ȝe my son with buffettes bobbyd,
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ffor alle your werkis full well he wist.
My ioy, my hert, ȝe al to-robbid,
the childe is ded þat soke my brest.
6
‘Vn-to a pyler wondur soreȝe bonde hym þer to abyde.
ffor he leuyd not on your lore
ȝe bete hym both bak and side.
Vn-to pylot prest ȝe cryed
Þat on a crosse he shulde be fest.
Thus, trayturs, þorow your fals pride,
The childe is ded þat soke my brest.
7
‘O wriȝt, how durst þu make þat tre—Welaway! why did þu so—
Þer-on my son nayled to be
And for to suffur alle þis woo?
Alas! why was þu his foo?
He greuyd þe neuer þat I wist.
Now sones get I neuer moo,
The childe is ded þat soke my brest.
8
‘With sharpe scourgis þei hym beteAnd rent his flessh fro þe bon,
Till his blode stode at his fete,
With-in his body lefte þei non.
ffull stille he stode as eny ston
And lete yow bete hym as a beest.
Mourne I may & make gret mone,
The childe is ded þat soke my brest.
9
‘O Iewys, how durst ȝe do þat spyteTo thirle my sonnes hert with a knyfe?
Mych of my woo I may yow wyte,
Owt of his brest ȝe bare þe life.
21
To spoyle þat prince ȝe were ful prest.—
Dere son, þu myȝt haue stynt her strife—
The childe is ded þat soke my brest.
10
‘The sonne hit sett alle at þe none,The erth hit made a dolfull dyn—
Ther-by myȝt ȝe wete wrong had ȝe don,
ȝe had slayne þat lorde þat alle shall wyn—
The see to rore þen can begynne,
The clowdis ouer-cast, all liȝt was lest.
His myȝt was more þen ȝe may mynne,
He rose agayn þat soke my brest.
11
‘With armyd knyȝtes ȝe can hym kepe,And wende to haue holdyn hym in your holde,
But when he list þei were a-slepe
(ffor to wakyn þei were on-bolde)
The ston ouer hym he can vp-folde
And trad vpon þe pruddist prest,
And went his way wher-so he wolde—
The childe is risen þat soke my brest.
12
‘Then to hell he toke þe way,With wondis wyde and al blody.
The foule fendis to affray,
With hym he bare þe crosse of tre.
Helle ȝatis fel vpyn to þat fre
When my son with hande hym blest.
The fendis roryd when þei hym se—
The childe is risen þat soke my brest.
13
‘Adam and eve with hym he toke,Kyng Davyd, Moyses and salamon,
And harrowid helle euery noke,
With-in hit lefte he sowlis non
22
lucifer þer bonde he prest,
þer-in to bide as stille as ston—
The childe is risen þat soke my brest.’
14
Thus scunfett he þe fendis fell,And toke his pray þat he had boȝt,
And put hem in-to endlesse welle
Ther ioy and blisse faylis noȝt.
Now pray we to hym with hert & thoȝt,
That prince þat soke oure lady brest,
Owt of this worde when we are broȝt
With hym and hir in heuyn to rest.
Explicit
| Religious Lyrics of the XVth Century | |