Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE LAND OF COCKAIGNE, by ANONYMOUS


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE LAND OF COCKAIGNE, by                    
First Line: "far in the sea, and west of spain / there lieth a land, I-hight cockaigne"
Last Line: "pray we god it so may be! / amen, amen, by charity!"
Subject(s): Heaven; Paradise


FAR in the sea, and west of Spain,
There lieth a land, i-hight Cockaigne;
Beneath high Heaven there lies, I wis,
No land in goodness like to this!
Tho' Paradise be fair and bright
Cockaigne is e'en a gladder sight;
Paradise, what doth it bear
But trees, and grass, and flowerets fair?
Of joy and pleasure no lack is known,
But no meat is there save fruit alone:
In hall or bower is naught, for sure,
To quench the thirst, save water pure!
Two men only, I rede thee well,
Elias and Enoch, there may dwell;
Lonely I ween, their lot, and sore,
Who of comrades may have no more!

In Cockaigne is meat and drink,
Free from sorrow, care, and stint,
The meat is choice, the drink is clear,
At every meal throughout the year.
I say for sooth, this wide world round,
Its peer may nowhere else be found,
'Neath Heaven there is no land, I wis,
Of such abounding joy and bliss!
There is many a goodly sight,
'T is ever day, there falls no night,
There is no quarrel, there is no strife;
There is no death, but endless life;
There is no lack of wealth, nor cloth;
Nor man nor woman there waxeth wroth;
There is no serpent, wolf, nor fox,
Horse nor gelding, cow nor ox;
There is no goat, nor swine, nor sheep,
Never a steading, so God me keep!
Neither stallions, nor mares for brood,
The land is full of other good.
There is no fly, nor flea, nor louse,
In cloth nor bedding, town, nor house;
There is no thunder, sleet, nor hail,
No vile earth-worm, nor e'en a snail!
There is no storm, no rain, no wind;
There is no man nor woman blind;
But all is gladness, joy, and glee,
Oh! Well is him who there may be!

There be rivers great and fine,
Of oil, milk, honey, and eke of wine,
Water, it serveth naught, I ween,
Save for washing, and to be seen:
There be fruits of all kinds, I trow,
There is solace, and joy enow!

There is a right fair Friary,
Both of the White Friars, and the Grey;
There, I ween, be bowers and halls,
All of pasties be the walls,
Of flesh, of fish, of choicest meat,
The daintiest that a man may eat.
Of floury cakes the shingles all
On church and cloister, bower and hall;
The pinnacles be of plump puddings
Meet for princes, and eke for kings!
A man thereof may eat his fill,
Free from sorrow, of right good will;
All is common to young and old,
To stout and valiant, meek and bold.

There is a cloister fair and light,
Broad and long, a seemly sight:
The pillars of that cloister tall
Are wrought of crystal clear withal;
With every base and capital
Of jasper green, and of red coral.
In the meadow there is a tree,
Very pleasant it is to see,
The roots are ginger and spices good,
The branches all of liquorice wood,
Of choicest mace it is, the flower,
Cinnamon, the bark, of sweet odour,
Of gilly-flower cloves the fruit, I ween. --
No lack of cabobs there is seen --
Roses red, methinks, there be,
And snow-white lilies, fair to see,
That fade not either by day or night,
Methinks it should be a goodly sight!

. . . . . . . .

Four be the wells in that Friary,
Of treacle one, and of healing whey,
Of balsam, and of spiced wine,
Ever running, fair and fine,
With their streams to enrich the mould --
There be precious stones and gold;
There be pearl and sapphire rare,
Carbuncle red, and crystal fair.
Emerald, jacinth, chrysoprase,
Beryl, onyx, and eke topaze,
Amethyst, and chrysolite,
Chalcydone, and malachite.
Of birds 't were ill to count the tale,
Throstle, thrush, and nightingale;
Woodpeckers green, and larks there be,
And of all birds great company,
That never slack, but use their might
In merry song, both day and night.

And yet I do you more to wit --
Roasted geese upon the spit
Fly to that abbey, so God wot,
Crying, "Geese, all hot, all hot!"
Garlick they bring in plenty there,
Right so as cunning cooks prepare;
The laverocks too, I say for sooth,
Fly adown to each man's mouth,
Stewed they are, and right well done,
Stuffed with cloves, and with cinnamon.
Of any drink that there be, at will
Every man may take his fill.
When the friars they go to Mass
All the windows that be of glass
Turn themselves to crystal bright
That the brethren may have more light.
When the Masses all be said,
And the books aside are laid,
The crystal turns to glass once more,
Even as it had been afore.

. . . . . . . .

Whoso will come that land unto
Sorry penance must he do;
Seven years long, in filth and grime
Must he wade, and all the time
Therein be plunged, up to the chin --
So shall he to that land win!
Lordings good, I'ld have ye know,
Never shall ye thither go
Save that first ye take this chance,
And fulfil this sore penance,
So may ye this fair land gain,
And may never turn again.
Pray we God it so may be!
Amen, Amen, by Charity!





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