Palaestra XV. Sir Ysumbras

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Sir Ysumbras.

[I]

Hende in haule, and ȝe will here
Of eldirs, þat byfore vs were,
þat lyffede in arethede
(Jesu Crist, heuen kynge,
Graunte vs alle his blyssynge
And heuen to oure mede):
I will ȝow telle of a knyghte,
þat was bothe hardy and wyghte
And doghty man of dede.
His name was called sir Ysumbras:
Swilke a knyghte, als he was,
Now lyffes nane in lede.

II

He was mekill man and lange,
With schuldirs brode and armes strange,
þat semly was to see.
He was large man and heghe:
Alle hym loffede, þat hym seghe:
Se hende a man was hee.
Glewmen he luffede wele in haulle
And gafe þam riche robis of palle,
Bothe golde and also fee.
Of curtasye he was kynge,
Of mete and drynke no nythynge:
In worlde was none so fre.

III

Als fayre a lady had he,
Als any erthly man myght see,
With tunge als I ȝow neuen.
Knaue childire had þay thre:
þay were þe faireste, þat myghte be
Vndir þe cope of heuen.
In his hert a pride was broghte:
Of goddis werkes gafe he righte noghte
His mercy for to neuen.
So longe he reyngned in þat pride,
That god wolde no lenger habyde:
To hym he sent a steuen.

IV

So it byfelle appon a daye,
The knyghte went forthe hym to playe,
His foreste for to see.
Als he went by a derne sty,
He herde a fowle synge hym by
Hy vpone a tree,
And said: ‘Welcome, sir Ysumbras!
þou hafes forgetyn, whate þou was,
For pride of golde and fee.
The kyng of heuen gretis the soo:
In ȝouthe or elde þou sall dry woo;
Chese, whethir es leuer to thee!’

V

With carefull herte and syghynge sare

The knyghte felle on his knes þare
And bothe his handis vp helde:
‘Werldes welthe I will forsake,
To goddes mercy I will me take:
To hym my saule I ȝelde.
In ȝouthe I maye bothe ryde and goo;
When I ame alde, I may nott so:
My lymmes will waxe vnwelde.
Lorde, ȝif it thi will bee,
In ȝowthede pouerte þou send mee
And welthe in myn elde’.

VI

þan the foule toke his flyghte,
Alle one he leued þat drery knyghte:
Full sone he went his waye.

And, when he of þe fowle had no syghte,
His stede, þat was so stronge and wyghte,
Dede vndir hym laye.
His hawkes and his howndis bothe
Wente to wode, als þay were wrothe,
Ilkone a dyuerse waye.
Whate wondir was, þofe hym ware wo?
One fote byhoued hym to goo:
To pyn turned his playe.

VII

And, als he wente by a wodschawe,
þare mett he with a lyttill knaue,
Come rynnande hym agayne.
Wele wers tythynges he hym tolde,

That brynned were alle his byggynges bolde,
His bestes weren alle slayne.
‘Lorde, þer es noghte lefte one lyfe
Bot thi childir and thi wyfe:
The sothe es noghte to layne’.
‘With þat I may one lyfe see
My wyfe and my childire thre,
ȝitt was I neuer so fayne’.

VIII

Als he wente hym selfe allone,
His hirdemen mett he euerylkone
With a full drery swoghe.
þay saide, þaire fee was fro þam revede:

‘Certis, sir, ȝow es noghte leuyde
A stotte vnto ȝoure plowghe’.
Thay wepede sare and gaffe þam ill;
þe knyghte bad, þay solde be styll,
‘I wytte ȝow noghte this woghe.
God, þat sent me alle this woo,
Hase sent me joye and blys also,
And ȝitt may send ynoghe’.

IX

A dolefull syghte þan gan he see,
His wyfe and his childir three,
Owte of þe fyre were flede:
Als nakede, als þay were borne,
þer þay stode vndir a thorne,

Broghte owte of þaire bedd.
ȝit changede no thynge his blee,
To he sawe þam nakede bee,
þat he leuyde comly clede.
The lauedy bade hir childir be blythe,
‘For ȝondir I see ȝoure fadir one lyue:
For no thynge be ȝe drede!’

X

They wepede alle and gafe þam ill:
þe knyghte bad, þay solde be styll,
‘And wepe noghte so sare;
For alle þe bale, þat we aryn in,
It es for oure wyked syn:
We are worthi wele mare!
We kane nonekyns werkes wyrke,
Owre frendis of vs will son be irke:
Of lande, I rede, we fare.

Of my seluen hafe I no thoghte,
Bot I may gyffe my men noghte:
For þam es alle my kare’.

XI

He tok his riche mantill of palle,
And on his wyefe he lete it falle
With a full drery mode.
His riche surcote þan schare he
And hyld his pore childir thre,
þat nakede byfore hym stode.
‘Now sall ȝe do after my rede,
To seke, þare god was qwike and dede,
þat sprede was one the rode;
For Jesus Criste, so hende es he,
Who so hym sekes with herte fre,
He sendis þam lyues fode’.

XII

With a littill knyfe he schare
A crose appon his schuldir bare,
In storye als we saye.
Alle þay, þat his frendis ware,
They wepid faste and syghede sare:
þayre sange was ‘waylawaye’.
The knyghte and the lady hende
Toke þaire lefe at þaire frende
And made þaire fondynge daye.
For þam weped bothe olde and ȝynge.
þare was a dolefull partynge,
When þay went þaire waye.

XIII

With þam þay bare full littill gude
To helpe þam to þaire lyues fode,
Nowþer golde ne fee,

Bot in þe lande to begge þaire mete,
Were þat þay myghte any gete
For saynte Charite.
Fyve kynges landes gun þay passe,
Als it goddis wille was,
With þaire childir three.
þay, þat was wonte to wele and wyn,
The pouerte, þat þay were in,
Grete dole it was to see.

XIV

In a foreste þay were gone wylle:
Towne ne myghte þay none wyn tille,
Als wery als þay ware.
When thre dayes was comen and gane
(Mete ne drynke ne hade þay nane),
For hungre þay weped sare.

No thynge sawe þay, þat come of corne,
Bot the floures of the thorne
Vpone the holtes hare.
Thay come to a water kene:
þer ouer þay walde fayne hafe bene:
þan was þaire kare þe mare.

XV

His eldeste sone he toke þare,
And ouer þe water he hym bare
And sett hym by a brome.
He sayde: ‘Luke, sone, þat þou be styll,
To I feche thi breþer the till,
And playe the with a blome’.
The knyghte, þat was bothe hend and gude,
Ouer þe water agayne he wode:
His medill sone he nome

And bare hym ouer þe water wylde:
A lyoune toke his eldeste childe,
Are he to lande come.

XVI

With carefull herte and syghynge sare
His medilleste sone lefte he thare:
Wepande he went awaye.
A lebarde come and tuk þat othir
And bare hym to wode to hir broþer:
Wyghtly he wente awaye.
The lady grette and gafe his ill:
Nere scho wolde hirselven spill,
One lande þare scho laye.
þe knyghte bad his lady be still:

‘Take we gladly goddis will,
Hertily I ȝow pray’.

XVII

Littill wondir, þofe þay wo were:
Bothe þaire childir lost þay þere,
þaire elder sonnes twoo.
He toke his wyfe, þat was hym dere,

And ouer þe water he hir bere,
His ȝongeste sone also.
Thurgh a foreste wente þay dayes three,
Till þay come to þe greckes see:
Stormes sawe þay bloo.
Appon the lond als þay stude,
þay sawe come saylande on þe flode
Three hundrethe schippes and moo.

XVIII

And, als þay stode appon þe lande
And lokede in to þe see strande,
þose schippes sawe þay ryde
With toppe castells sett one lofte:
þay semed alle of golde wroghte,

þay glitterd, als þay gan glyde.
A haythen kyng was þer in:
Cristendom he come to wynn,
To wakkyn woo full wyde.
þe knyghte thoghte, þat he wolde lende
In a hauen at þe foreste ende
A littill þer bysyde.

XIX

þe schippes lent by þe land syde:
The folke come vp with mekill pryde
Moo, þen I kane neuen.
þe knyghte saide to his lady free:

‘What ferly folkkes maye þiese bee?’
With so lowde a steuen.
‘In this foreste hafe we gane,
Mete ne drynke had we nane,
More þan thiese dayes seuen.
Goo we and aske þam of some mete,
ȝife þat we maye any gete,
For goddis lufe of heuen’.

XX

To þe galaye gan þay wyn,
There the sowdane was in,
þat richely was wroghte.
þay askede hym some lyues fode
For his lufe, þat dyede on rode

And made þis worlde of noghte.
The sarazens said, he was a spye,
When þay herde hym swagates crye,
þat þaire schippes had soghte.
þe sowdane bade bet hym awaye:
‘For þay lefe nott on owre laye,
Of me gete þay righte noghte’.

XXI

þan saide a knyghte vnto þe kynge:
‘Sir, it es a wondir thynge
ȝone pore man for to see.
For he es bothe large and heghe,

The faireste man, þat euer I seghe:
A gentil man es hee.
His lymmes erre lange, his bones gret,
His eghne gray and wondir step:
A knyghte hym semes to bee.
His wyfe es whitte as walles bone,
Hir lyre es als þe see fome
And bryghte als blome on tree’.

XXII

þe sowdane þan gret dole thoghte
And bad, þay solde be byfore hym broghte:
‘I will þam see with syghte’.
When he þam sawe, hym rewed sare,
So faire als þay bothe ware,

If thay were clede arighte.
He saide to hym: ‘Lefe on my laye
And do thi false goddis awaye
And helpe me in my fyghte.
Rede gold sall be thi mede:
If þou be doghty man of dede,
I sal þe dube a knyghte’.

XXIII

Stylle stode sir Ysumbras
And sawe, a sarazene þat he was:
‘Sir’, he sayde, ‘naye.
þat ne sall I neuer mare,

Agayne crystyndome to war
And forsake my laye.
In this foreste hafe we gane,
Mete ne drynke hafe we nane:
This es þe seuent daye.
We aske the some lyues fode
For his lufe, þat dyed on rode,
And late vs wende oure waye’.

XXIV

þe sowdane byhelde þat lady þare:
Hym thoghte, an angelle þat scho ware,
Commen owte of heuen.
He saide: ‘Will þou thi wyffe selle me,
I will gyff the golde and fee

More, þan þou kane neuen.
I will þe gyffe ane hundrethe pownde
Of florence, þat bene rede and rownde,
And riche robes seuen.
Scho sall be qwene of all my lande
And alle men bowe vnto hir hande
And nane withstande hir steuen’.

XXV

Sir Ysumbras sayd: ‘Naye!
My wyfe will I nott selle awaye,
Bot ȝe me for hir slaa.
I wedded hir in goddes laye
To halde hir to myn endyng daye
Bothe in wele and waa’.
þe gold on his mantill þay talde,

And till hymselfen þay gan it falde:
His wyefe þay tuke hym fraa;
And on þe lande þay gan hym kaste
And bett hym, till his rybbis braste,
And made his flesche all blaa.

XXVI

The littill childe one lande þay sett,
And sawe, how men his fadir bett:
He wepid and was full waa.
þe lady grete and gafe hir ill:
Vnnethes þay myght halde hir still,
þat scho hir selue walde slaa.
Scho braid hir armes and faste gan crye
And called faste one oure lady:
‘Sall we now parte in twaa?
Allas! sall I neuer blythe be:

My weddede lorde sall I neuer see:
Now wakyns all my waa!’

XXVII

When þe wounded knyght myght stande,
He tok his sone by þe hande,
And forthe þan went hee.
A riche schippe was dighte righte ȝare:
þe sowdane bad, a knyght solde fare
With þat lady free.
þe sowdane with his ownn honde
Crownned hir qwene of alle his londe
And sent hir ouer þe see.
A chartir was mad full wele farande

(þe sowdan selide it with his hande),
þat scho solde qwene bee.

XXVIII

When þe schippe was redy þare,
þe lady weped and was full sare
And kneled byfore the kynge:
‘Sir kynge’, scho sayde, ‘I pray the,
A bowne þat þou wold graunt me
Wiþowtten any duellyng:
Are I pass beȝond þe see,
Late my lorde speke with me
Of ane prive thyng’.

The sowdan called hym agayne,
þer of þe lady was full fayne:
þaire takynnyng was a ryng.

XXIX

þare was joye to see þam mete
With clyppyng and with kyssyng swete.
To schippe whan sho solde gaa,
Scho saide: ‘Dere god, full waa es me,
That I ne were drowned in þe see,
Sall we departe on twaa.
In to þat lande, þat I am in,
Fonde þyseluen for to wynn:
The haythen kyng sall we slaa.
þan sall ȝe be kyng of þat lande
(And alle men bowe vnto ȝoure hande)
And couer all ȝoure waa’.

XXX

Mete and drynke scho gerte hym gyfe,
A sevennyghte þat he myght with lyfe,

His littill sone and he.
þe lady was bothe meek and mylde:
Scho kyssede hir lorde and hir childe
And swonid siþes three.
Thay drewe vp sayle of ryche hewe:
þe wynde þam owte of hauen blewe
With þat lady free.
þe knyghte on þe lande hym sett,
And for his lady sare he grett,
Whils he þe sayle myghte see.

XXXI

He toke his sone by þe hande
And forthe he went vpone þe lande
Ymange þe holtes hare.
Thay sett þam downe vndir a tree:

Nowþer of þam myghte oþer see:
So had þay wepede sare.
Mete and drynke forthe he droghe
And gafe his littill sone ynoghe:
His hert þan was full sare.
In his mantill of skarlet rede
Ymange his golde he did his brede,
And with hym he it bare,

XXXII

Till he come to ane hyll full hy;
þare he thoghte al nyghte to lye:
No forþer myghte he dree.
On þe morn, when it was daye,
A negle bare þe gold awaye,
For þe rede clothe he see.

A sory man þan wakid hee
And folowed hym to þe greckes see:
þer ouer gane he flee.
The same tyme an vnycorne
His ȝonge sone away had borne:
Swylke sorowe gane he dree.

XXXIII

Ofte he was in wele and woo,
Bot neuer half, als he was thoo:
He sett hym one a stone.
With carefull mode and drery steuen
He called on þe kyng of heuen:
To hym he made his mone.
‘Lorde’ he saide, ‘full wo es me!
So faire childir, als I hafede, thre!
Nowe ame I lefte allone!

Gode, þat weres in heuen crowne,
Wysse me þe waye vnto some towne,
For full will ame I gone’.

XXXIV

Als he went by a lawe,
Smethymen herde he blawe:
A gret fyre sawe he glowe.
He askede þam mete for charyte:
þay bade hym swynke: ‘For swa do we;
We hafe none oþer ploghe’.
Thoo ansuerde þe knyghte agayne:
‘For mete wold I swynke fayne,
Bathe bere and drawe ynoghe’.

þay gafe hym mete gud wone
And garte hym bere irynstone
Owte of a depe sloghe.

XXXV

þus þe knyght bare irynstone,
Till twelfmonth were comen and gone:
He wroghte hym mekill woo.
By þan couthe he make a fyre:
þan þay gafe hym mannes hyre,
And wroghte more þan twoo.
A smethyman was he þore
Lange seuen ȝere and more
And blewe þaire belyes bloo.

By þan he hade hym armour dyghte,
All, þat felle for a knyghte,
To batelle when he solde goo.

XXXVI

Alle þose seuen ȝere, I vndirstande,
The sowdane werreyede on cristen lande
And stroyed it full wyde.
The crysten kyng fledde so lange,
Till he had puruayed batelle strange
þe sarazenes to abyde.
A daye of batelle þan was sett:
þe crystyn and þe haythen mett
A littyll þer besyde.

In his armes, þat he had wroghte,
On a horse, þat coles broghte,
To batelle gan he ryde.

XXXVII

He rode vp to ane hyll so heghe:
Crystyn and haythen þer he seghe.
The twoo kynges hade broghte
Ayþir batelle on a lawe:
Trumpys herde he lowde blawe,
And wepnes he sawe one lofte.
The knyght was hende and free
And sett hym downe appon his kne:
To Jesu he bysoghte

To sende hym grace in þat felde,
‘þe heythen kyng þat I myght ȝelde
The woo, he hase me wroghte’.

XXXVIII

þe knyghtes herte was full gude,
And forthe he went with egre mode,
And þryse he gonne hym sayne.
For no wapen wolde he stynt:
There lyffede none, withstode his dynt,
Till his horse was slayne.
þan he to þe grownde soughte:

An erle of þe batell hym broghte
Vntill an heghe mountayne.
þare he chaunged all his wede
And horsede hym one a gud stede,
And sone he went agayne.

XXXIX

When he was horsede on a stede,
He sprange forthe, als sparke one glede,
With grymly growndyn gare.
The beryns he hitt appon the hode,

And ȝit es sene, whare his horse ȝode,
And sall be euer mare.
He rode vp to ane heghe mountayne:
Thare þe sowdane hase he slayne
And many, þat with hym ware.
All þat daye lastyd þat fyghte:
Sir Ysumbras, þat nobill knyght,
Wan þe batelle thare.

XL

When þe sarazenes were slayne,
The crysten kyng was full fayne:
Thay made gamen and glee.

The kyng askede: ‘Whare es þat knyght,
þat was so doghty in þis fyghte,
þat I hym noghte see?’
Knyghtes and squiers hym soghte
And byfore þe kynge hym broghte:
Sare wondide was hee.
The kyng his name frayned þan:
‘Sir’, he saide, ‘I am a smethyman.
Whate es ȝour will with me?’

XLI

The kyng ansuerde þe knyghte agan:
‘I trowe, neuer smethyman
In werre were so wyghte’.

He bad gyffe hym mete and drynke
And alle, þat he wolde after thynke,
Till he hade couerde myghte.
And by his crowne þe kyng sware,
When he were couerde of his care,
That he wolde dubbe hym knyghte.
At a nunrye þe knyght was leuede
To hele þe wondes in his heuede,
þat he had in þat fyghte.

XLII

þe nonnes of hym were full fayne,
For he hade þe sowdane slayne
And many haythen hound,

And of his paynes sare gun rewe:
Ilke daye þay made salues newe
To lay þam till his wound.
þay gafe hym mete and drynkis lythe
And helid his wondes also swythe
Within a lyttill stownde.
He bythoghte hym full ȝare,
þat he wolde duelle þer no mare,
When he were hale and sound.

XLIII

The knyghte puruayed hym scrip and pyke
And made hymselfe a palmere lyke,
Redy for to wende.
His leue he tuke, withowttyn lesse,
And thankede faire þe pryores

And alle hir nunnes hende.
þe righte waye þan tuke he
To a hauen of þe grekkes see,
Als Jesu Cryste hym sende.
A schippe fonde he redy þare
Ouer þe see for to fare:
In Acris gun þay lende.

XLIV

When þay were in Acris lenede,
With wery bones vp he wenede
In to þat haythen stede.
Seuen ȝere was he palmere þore
With hungre, thriste and bones sore,

In storye als we rede.
As he ȝode vpone þe daye,
Righte so vpone þe nyghte he laye,
In his poure wede.
Goddes werkkes for to wyrke
Of penance was he neuer irke
For his are-mysdede.

XLV

All þe cete he hase thurgh gone,
Mete ne drynke ne gat he none
Ne house to herbere in.
Besyde þe burghe of Jerusalem
He sette hym by a welle streme

Sore wepande for pyne.
And, als he satt, abowte mydnyghte
þare come an angelle faire and bryghte
And broghte hym brede and wyne.
‘Palmere’, he saide, ‘welcome þou bee!
The kynge of heuen wele gretis the:
Forgyffen erre synnes thyn.

XLVI

Rest þe wele, sir Ysumbras:
Forgeffen es alle thi tryspase,
For sothe, withowttyn layne.
Wele the gretis heuen kynge
And gyffes the his blyssynge
And byddes the torne agayne’.
The knyghte sette hym downe on his knee,
Jesu Criste than thankede hee

And wepide: so was he fayne.
Bot wyste he neuer, whedir to gone:
For he had no beter wone,
Bot aye to walke in payne.

XLVII

Seuen kynges landes went he thurgh,
Till he come to a riche burgh,
þare in a castelle stode.
He herde telle, þer wonned a qwene,
þat was bothe bryghte and schene,
And grete worde of hir ȝode.
Ylke daye scho gafe at hir ȝate,
For goddis lufe, who wolde it take,
A florayn faire and good.
‘Wele were me, myght I ane gete:

þerwith I myght bye my mete
And come to lyues fode’.

XLVIII

When he come to þe castelle ȝate,
Poure men standande þer at
Many fand he þare;
Ilk one of þam hade a florayn.
Sir Ysumbras was neuer so fayne,
Hym hungrede neuer so sare.
Of poure men, þat myghte ill goo,
þay tuke in sexty and moo
Of þam, þat sekeste ware.
And in þay tuke sir Ysumbras:
At gret myschefe, þay sawe, he was:
Of hym þay rewede sare.

IL

The riche qwene in haulle was sett:
Knyghttes hir serued to hande and fete
In riche robis of palle.
In the floure a clothe was layde:
‘þe poure palmere’, the stewarde sayde,
‘Sall sytt abowen ȝow alle!’
Mete and drynke was forthe broghte:
þe palmere satt and ete righte noghte,
Bot luked abowte the haulle.
So mekill he sawe of gamen and glee
And thoghte, what he was wonnt to be:
Terys he lete downe falle.

L

So lange he satt and ete righte noghte:
The qwene byhelde, and wondir thoghte,
And till a knyghte gan saye:
‘Feche me a chayere and a qwyschyn
And sett þe poure palmere þer in,

þat he me tell maye,
What tydans he hase herde and sene
In haythynnes, þare he hase bene
In many a wilfull waye’.
A riche chayere þer was forthe fett:
þe poure palmere þer in was sett
And tolde hir of his laye.

LI

So nobilly he hir tolde,
þat scho myghte frayne hym, what shoo wolde,
þe lenger þat þay sete.
‘For my lordis saule I sall þe gyffe,
Als lange als þou may lyfe,

Euer clothe and mete
And a chambir faire and free
(And a knaue to serue the)
Within the castelle ȝete’.
He thankede mekill þe lady free,
And in hir courte þare duellid he:
His chere was þe bete.

LII

So þe palmere duellid þere,
Till þat he was bothe hale and fere,
And seruede in þe haulle.
He was bothe fayre man and heghe,
Alle had wondir, þat hym seghe:
So strange he was with alle.

When knyghtes went to put þe stane,
Twelue fote byfore thaym euerylke ane
He keste it als a balle.
A tornament þay did hym bede
And horsede hym on a crokede stede,
And ȝitt forthoughte þam alle.

LIII

When sir Ysumbras come in filde,
Was none so doghty vndir schilde,
Durste mete his crokede stede,

þat he ne gafe hym swylke a clowte,
þat bothe his eghne stode one strowte;
And many he garte to blede;
And some he keste into a slake
And braste þam bothe neke and bakke;
And many flede for drede.
þe riche qwene satt and loghe
And sayd: ‘My palmere es strange enoghe:
He es worthi to fede!’

LIV

It byfelle appon a daye,
þe knyghte wente hym for to playe,
Als it was are his kynde.
A fowlis neste he sawe one heghe,
A rede clothe þer in he seghe

Wayuande with the wynde.
Vnto þe neste gan he wynn,
His awen mantill he sawe þer in,
His golde þare gan he fynde.
When he with eghne sawe þe golde,
þat his wyfe was fore solde,
His sorowe he had in mynde.

LV

The golde to his chambir he bare,
Vndir his bedd he hyd it þare:
Wepande he went awaye.
And aye, when he þe golde gun see,
He grette for his wyfe and childir three:
To pyne torned his playe.
And he were neuer so blythe of mode,

And he vnto his chambir ȝode,
He wepid sythen all daye.
So lange þe palmere lede this lyffe,
With þe knyghtes it wexe full ryffe,
And to þe qwene gan saye.

LVI

So it byfelle appon a daye,
þe palmere went to wode to playe,
His sorowe for to mene.
Knyghtes braste vp his chambir dore
And fande þe golde in þe flore
And schewd it to þe qwene.
When scho saw þe golde with syghte,

In swonyng felle þat swete wyghte,
For scho it are had sene.
Scho kyssede it and sayde: ‘Allas!
This golde aughte sir Ysumbras,
My lorde was wonte to bene’.

LVII

Than scho it to þe knyghtes tolde,
How scho for þat golde was solde,
And hir lorde bett sare.
‘When ȝe mai þe palmere see,
Biddes hym come and speke with me:
þereto me langes sare’.
þe palmere come into þe haulle,
Scho gan hym to concelle calle
And fraysted at hym þare,

If he were euer gentyll man
And whare and howe he þat golde wanne.
His mourning wexe þe mare.

LVIII

With carefull herte and syghynge sare
He gafe þe lady ane ansuare
And one his knee hym sett.
þe firste tale, þat he hir tolde,
Howe his wyfe was þerfor solde
And howe hymselfe was bett.
‘My childir three I hafe lorn,
My mantill fra me was borne,

And in a neste I it fett’.
þe lady knelide byfore his face
And sayde: ‘Welecome, sir Ysumbras!’
For joye þay bathe grett.

LIX

Joye it was to see þam mete
With halsyng and with kyssyng swete,
In armes for to folde.
Ayþir of oþer were so fayne,
þat þay walde no lengere layne,

Bot to þe knyghtes tolde.
A riche feste did þai bede,
Riche and poure þereto ȝede:
Durste nane agayne þam holde.
þay crownned sir Ysumbras þer righte
And made hym kynge, þat are was knyghte,
Ouer þe barouns bolde.

LX

A riche kynge was sir Ysumbras
(In mare welthe, þan euer he was)
Of haythen landes thare.
Crystyndome to kepe that tyde,
Sandes he sente full ferre and wyde
To þam, þat haythen ware.
Bot þay were alle at ane assent,
þat þere to þai ne wolde conscent,
Bot to a batelle fare.
þay sayde, and if þay myghte hym hent,

þat he solde be drawen and brent
And alle, þat with hym ware.

LXI

A daye of batelle þer was sett,
Many haythen þer was mett
Sir Ysumbras to slaa.
Fele sarazenes semblede þat tyde,
þay come thedir ferre and wyde
With haythen kynges twaa.
Sir Ysumbras was full of care,
He hade no man with hym to fare:
His men awaye gan gaa.
þe sarazenes faylede hym at nede:
When he was horsede one a stede,
Alle þay flede hym fraa.

LXII

Sir Ysumbras was full of waa:
He kyssede his wyfe and wolde gaa
With sorowfull hert and sare.
A dolefull worde þan gun he saye:
‘Certis, dame, hafe gud daye
For nowe and euer mare’.
‘Lorde, helpe me, þat I were dyghte
In armour, als I were a knyghte,
And with the will I fare.
ȝif god wolde vs grace sende,
þat we myghte togeder ende,
I kepe to lyffe no mare’.

LXIII

Sone was þe lady dyghte

In armour, als scho were a knyghte,
And had spere and schilde.
Agayne thrytty thowsandez and maa
Come þere nane, bot þay twaa,
When þay mett in þe filde.
Righte als þay solde hafe taken bee,
There come rydande knyghttes three
Appon thre bestes wylde,

A lebarde and a vnycorne,
On a lyone he come byforne,
þat was þair eldeste childe.

LXIV

In angells wede were þay clede,
An angelle þam to batelle lede,
þat semely was to see.
þay slewe þe haythen kynges twaa
And oþer sarazenes many alswa,
Thrytty thowsandez and thre.
Sir Ysumbras prayed þam þare,
Hame with hym þat þay walde fare
And be of his menȝe.
Thay ansuerde, als þe angelle þam kende:
‘For the were we to batelle sende:

Thyne awenn sonnes are wee’.

LXV

Ofte was he wele and woo,
Bot neuer so wele, als he was tho:
One knees he hym sett.
He grett and sayde with mylde steuen:
‘Thankede be the kyng of heuen,
My bale þat he hase bett’.
Ysumbras and his lady free
Kyssed þen thaire childir three:
Ilkane for joye þay grett.
Mare joye myghte nane bee,
þan men myghte þare see,
In armes when þay mett.

LXVI

A ryche burghe was there besyde:
Sir Ysumbras gane thedir ryde,
His sonnes gan to lede.
Chambirs fande þay faire and bryghte
And riche robys redy dyghte
And chaunged all þaire wede.
þare was riche metis wane,
Bothe of wylde and of tame,
Many a riche brede.
Three hayþen landis gun þay wyn
And stabylde crystyndome þer in,
In story als we rede.

LXVII

þan was þe kynge sir Ysumbras

Of mare welthe, þan he euer was,
And couerde of his kare.
Ilke of his sonnes he gafe a lande
And crownned þam kynges with his hande,
Are þay fra hym gan fare.
Thay lyffede and dyed in gud entent,
Vnto heuen þaire saulis went,
When þat þay dede ware.
Praye we to Jesu, heuen kynge,
He gyffe us alle his dere blyssynge
Nowe and euer mare!

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