Hay! hay! by this day, What availeth it me though I say, nay? I wold fain be a clarke, But yet it is a strange werke: The birchen twigges be so sharpe, It maketh me have a faint harte. What availeth it me though I say, nay? On Monday in the morning whan I shall rise, At six of the clok, it is the gise To go to skole without avise -- I had lever go twenty mile twise. What availeth it me though I say, nay? My master loketh as he were madde: "Wher hast thou be, thou sory ladde?' "Milked duckes, my moder badde.' It was so mervaile though I were sadde! What availeth it me though I say, nay? My master pepered my ars with well good spede: It was worse than finkill sede. He wold not leve till it did blede -- Mich sorow have he for his dede! What availeth it me though I say, nay? I wold my master were a watt, And my boke a wild catt, And a brase of grehoundes in his toppe -- I wold be glad for to see that! What availeth it me though I say, nay? I wold my master were an hare, And all his bokes houndes were, And I myself a joly hontere; To blow my horn I wold not spare, For if he were dede I wold not care! What availeth it me though I say, nay? |