Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE OWL AND THE NIGHTINGALE, by ANONYMOUS


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE OWL AND THE NIGHTINGALE, by                    
First Line: In summertide it so befell / I found me in a hidden dell
Last Line: "that can I you in no wise tell, / I know no more of what befell"
Subject(s): Birds;nightingales;owls


IN summertide it so befell
I found me in a hidden dell,
Where strife did 'twixt two birds prevail,
Even an Owl and Nightingale.
Their plaint was shrill, and sharp, and strong,
Whiles was it soft, then loud, their song;
Each with the other waxed right wroth,
And each her evil mood poured forth;
Each on the other's customs cried,
And said the worst she knew that tide;
And each one 'gainst the other's song
There made complaint both loud and long.

The Nightingale was first with speech,
Ensconced was she within a beech,
And perched upon a fair green bough,
While all about were flowers enow;
For very thick it grew, the hedge,
With blades of grass mixed, and green sedge,
The gladder for that fair green bough
Skilful her song, and sweet, I trow,
Yea, one had deemed, those notes to hear,
That harp and pipe were hidden near;
Rather it seemed it came, each note,
From harp, or pipe, than from bird's throat.

There stood an old stump near beside,
There the Owl sung her song that tide,
With ivy was it over-grown,
Unto the Owl 't was house and home.

The Nightingale the Owl saw well,
Scornful her glances on her fell,
She thought right evil of that Owl,
(Men deem it aye loathly, and foul --)
"Monster," she quoth; "hence shalt thou flee,
I am the worse for seeing thee,
I trow thine evil cry, and strong,
Doth force me oft to cease my song;
My tongue doth fail, my courage flee,
When thus I know thee close to me,
Liefer am I to spit than sing,
Thy hooting doth such loathing bring!"

The Owl sat still, for eve drew nigh,
Nor longer would withold reply,
Her heart it swelled to hear that tale,
Well nigh her breath for wrath did fail.
She spake a word ere it was long:
"How? Thinkest thou to blame my song?
What, dost thou deem I cannot sing
Since trill nor run I skilful string?
I trow full oft thou dost me blame
And heapest on me scorn and shame;
Nay, an my foot had hold of thee, --
May chance betide that so it be! --
And thou wert down from off thy bough,
Wouldst sing another song, I trow!"

The Nightingale made answer there:
"An I may keep me fast and fair,
And shield me with the open bough,
I care not for thy threats, I trow.
So I may hold my hedge alway,
I little care what thou may'st say.
I wot small mercy dost thou tell
To those who may not shield them well,
Dost show thy wrath, and evil spite
To all small birds, when hast the might.
All kinds of fowl, they loath thee sore,
And drive thee hence, their flocks before:
'Gainst thee they shriek, 'gainst thee they cry,
And ever close behind thee fly.
The very titmouse, tho' she be
Right small, would tear thee willingly!
Yea, thou art loathly to behold,
Thine ugliness is manifold;
Thy body short, thy neck so small,
Greater thy head than thou withal;
Thine eyes be black, and broad to see,
As with burnt wood they painted be;
Thou starest, as wert fain to bite
Those whom thy claws would sharply smite.
Thy bill is hooked, and sharp withal,
Yea, like unto a crooked awl;
With that thou clackest oft, and long,
And that alone shall be thy song.
Fain art to threaten this, my flesh,
Would'st catch and hold me in a mesh,
As I to frogs were kin, I wit,
Who hidden 'neath the mill-wheel sit,
But snails and mice, and vermin small,
These be thy kin, thy right withal.
Dost hide by day, by night dost fly,
A monster art thou, verily,
Loathsome thou art too, and unclean,
As by thy nest is clearly seen,
And by thine owlets, right foul brood
Be they, and fed on right foul food."

. . . . . . . .

These words she spake, the Nightingale,
And having ended thus her tale,
She sang so loud, and shrill, and sharp,
'T was e'en as tho' one twanged a harp.
The Owl, she hearkened well that cry,
And ever downward turned her eye,
So puffed and swollen was she seen,
As she had gulped a frog, I ween,
For that she wist the song should be
Against her sung, in mockery.
Natheless, swift answer would she try;
"Why dost not in the open fly,
And see which of us twain shall be
Brightest of hue, most fair to see?"
"Nay, all too sharp thy claws, I trow,
I would not they should hold me now,
So swift and strong thy clutch doth fall,
E'en as a tongs it grips withal,
Didst think, as doth thy like alway,
Thou could'st with fair words me betray?
I follow not thy rede, I wis,
Thy counsel fain would lead amiss,
Forsooth, it bringeth shame on thee,
Discovered is thy treachery!
Nay, shield thy treason from the light,
And hide thy wrong beneath the right;
Wilt thou indulge thine evil spleen,
Then look thou that it be not seen!
For treason is with hate received
If it be open, and perceived.
Thy guile, it naught may profit thee
Since I be ware, and well may flee;
It helps thee naught that thou hast might,
I, with my wiles, may better fight
Than thou may'st do, with all thy strength,
I have, alike in breadth and length,
Here on my bough good harbourage,
'Well fights, who flies well,' saith the sage!
But put we to this strife an end,
It profits naught such words to spend,
And a right judgment now to win
With fair and peaceful words begin.
Though we be not of one accord
'T were better far with gentle word,
Without discord, and without fight,
To plead our cause with sooth and right.
Let each of us say what she will,
In words well chosen, and with skill."
Then quoth the Owl: "Who shall be fain
To judge aright betwixt us twain?"
"I trow well," quoth the Nightingale
"Hereof shall be no lengthy tale,
For Master Nichole, of Guildford,
Right wise shall be, of skilful word,
In judgment wary he, and wise,
No vice finds favour in his eyes,
He'll know right well, in this our song,
Who singeth right, who singeth wrong,
And he can sever from the right
The wrong, the darkness from the light."

The Owl awhile had her bethought
Before this answer forth she brought:
"I'll grant that he our judge shall be;
Tho' one-while passionate were he,
And loved the Nightingale withal,
And other song-birds that be small,
I trow his passions now be cooled,
And he by thee will not be fooled
In such wise that, for olden love,
He put me down, and thee above.
Ne'er shalt thou please him so, I wis,
That he for thee shall judge amiss.
Of wisdom ripe, of steadfast rede,
To ill advice he'll ne'er take heed;
Now hath he no more lust for play,
But sure will take the rightful way."

Ready the Nightingale; (I trow
Had learned her lesson well enow --)
"Owl," quoth she then, "now say me sooth,
Why dost thou as a monster doeth?
Thou sing'st by night, and not by day,
And all thy song is 'Wellaway,'
I trow thy song, it bringeth fear
To all men who its fashion hear;
Thou to thy mate dost shriek and yell
In grisley wise, the sooth to tell.
Wise men, or fools, awaked from sleep,
They deem thou sing'st not, but dost weep.
Thou fly'st by night, and not by day --
Thereof I marvel, and well may,
For everything that shunneth right
Loveth the darkness, hateth light;
And every one who loves misdeed
Seeketh the darkness for his need.
A wise word, tho' perchance unclean,
Is in men's mouths full oft, I ween,
King Alfred, he hath written, Owl,
'A man shuns those who know him foul.'
I trow e'en so with thee it is,
Thou fliest aye by night, I wis.
Another thing with thee is seen,
By night thine eyes be bright and keen,
By day-light shalt thou be stark blind,
Thou see'st neither bough nor rind;
Art blind, or well nigh blind, by day --
Thereby in parable men say:
Right so the evil man doth wend
Who seeth naught to a good end,
And is so full of evil guile
That no man may escape his wile.
Right well the dark way doth he know,
And from the light aside doth go.
And even so thy kin doth fare,
For light, I trow, have they no care."

The Owl had hearkened over long,
Her wrath by now had waxed full strong,
She quoth: "Thou Nightingale would'st be,
Chatterer, were fit name for thee!
Forsooth, too many tales dost tell,
A splint would suit thy tongue right well!
Thou deemest thou hast won the day;
Now shalt thou let me have my say,
Shalt hold thee still, and let me speak,
I will my vengeance on thee wreak.
Now list how I'll defend me well
And truly, nor long tale will tell.
Thou say'st I hide my head by day --
Thereto I think not to say Nay,
But hearken, and I'll tell to thee
Both why, and wherefore, this shall be.
I have a bill both stiff and strong,
And right good claws, both sharp and long,
As suiteth well unto hawk's kin --
Pleasure and practice lie herein
That I may nature follow free --
No man for that lays blame on me,
Therefore in me it may be seen
That I by nature be right keen.
Thus to the small birds loath am I,
Who low by ground or thicket fly,
They cry and shriek behind my back,
Follow in flocks upon my track;
It pleaseth me to be at rest,
And hold me still upon my nest,
I trow no whit the better I
To chafe and chatter, verily,
And scold them in foul words withal,
Herdsmen each other so miscall.
With shrews I have no lust to chide,
My way, it lieth from them wide.
A wise man judgeth thus alway,
And he full oft that same doth say:
'Men should not with the foolish chide
Nor with the oven yawn full wide,'
And I have some-time heard it tell
How Alfred spake, wisely, and well:
'Look that thy way thou never hold
Where men be wont to strive and scold --
Let fools chide, and the wise men go --'
And I be wise, and do also.
And Alfred spake, some other tide,
A word well known, both far and wide:
'Who mixeth with a fool, I ween,
He cometh never from him clean.'
Dost think the hawk the worse shall be
When marsh-crows scold him angrily,
And follow on his track in might
As they were fain with him to fight?
The hawk good counsel takes thereby,
He goes his way, and lets them cry.
But now thou say'st another thing;
Dost tell me that I cannot sing,
My song shall naught but wailing be,
Grisley to hear, in veritie.
That is not true, full oft I sing
Full loud, my voice doth clearly ring,
All songs thine ear as grisley strike
That be not to thy piping like.
My voice is bold, not weak to hear,
As a great horn it ringeth clear;
But thine is like a feeble pipe,
Blown thro' a reed, green, and unripe.
Better I sing than thou at best,
As Irish priest thou chatterest;
I sing at eve, when day is sped,
I sing when men should seek their bed,
I sing again when 't is midnight,
And so my song is fitly dight
Whenas I see to rise afar
The daybreak, or the morning star.
Thus with my throat much good I win,
And men much profit find therein.
But thou dost sing the live-long night
From even, to the morning light,
And dost repeat that self-same song
Unceasing, thro' the whole night long.
Dost crow thy wretched cry alway
That never ceaseth, night nor day,
But with thy pipe, I trow thee well,
Dost din men's ears, who near thee dwell,
Until thy song doth worthless grow
And men no joy therein may know.
For mirth, I ween, so long may last
That all its pleasure be o'erpast;
And harp and pipe, and birdling's song
Mislike men, if they last o'er long.
Nor shall thy song so joyful be
But one shall deem it misery
If he must hearken 'gainst his will --
So shall thy song be wasted still.
Alfred, he spake the sooth indeed,
As one in book right well may read:
'All things may lose their goodliness
Thro' lack of measure, and excess.'
With pleasure thou may'st satiate,
And over-fullness breedeth hate;
Each joy to weariness shall tend
If it continue without end,
Save one, that is God's Kingdom meet,
Ever the same, and ever sweet;
Take without ceasing from that store,
'T is ever full, and running o'er,
God's Kingdom is a wonder sure
That aye shall spend, and aye endure.

"Thou puttest on me other shame;
Thou say'st, I in mine eyes be lame;
Thou say'st, in that I fly by night
'T is that I cannot see in light.
Thou liest! It may well be seen
That I have sight both good and keen,
For there be never duskiness
In which I e'er may see the less.
Thou deem'st, I cannot see with eye
Therefore by day I do not fly;
The hare all day shall hidden be
Natheless the hare right well can see,
And should hounds chance to run his way
Full swift he flies from them away;
And many a narrow path doth take,
And many a twist and turn doth make,
And fares with many a bound and leap,
So to the groves his way doth keep.
For both his eyes so never he
Would do, if that he might not see.
Well as the hare I see, methinks,
Tho' thro' the day I sit, and blink.
The valiant man, who beareth shield,
And, near and far, doth fare afield,
Thro' many a land his way doth take
And doth by night good progress make;
Follow these valiant men will I,
And with their band by night will fly."

The Nightingale, within her thought
She pondered this, and long she sought
What she thereafter best might say,
Since she in no wise might gainsay
That which the Owl had said, indeed,
For that she spake both right, and rede.
In sooth she deemed she so had sped,
Their speech to such a point had led,
She needs must fear right ill to fare
Nor true and fitting answer bear.
Natheless, she spake out valiantly
For he is wise, who, hardily,
Doth make good face against his foe,
Nor cause thro' cowardice doth forego.
For they wax bold, an thou shalt flee,
Who'ld fly didst thou fight valiantly,
For, if he see thee bold, straightway,
Your boar's a barrow pig, i' fay!
And therefore, tho' full sore afraid,
The Nightingale a brave show made.
She quoth: "Now, Owl, I prithee say,
Why sing in winter, 'Wellaway'?
Thou sing'st as doth a hen in snow,
All that she singeth is for woe;
In winter thou dost cry, and wail,
In summer-time thy song doth fail.
'T is for foul envy thou, alway,
With other birds wilt not be gay.
For jealousy dost burn, I wis,
Whenas our bale be turned to bliss;
Thou dost as evil men do still,
All gladness is against thy will;
To frown, and grudge, that is their way,
Whenas that other men be gay.
The envious would ever spy
Salt tears in this, his neighbour's, eye,
Nor recks he tho' their flocks shall fare
In wild confusion, head, and hair.
So is thy custom, at this tide,
For, when the snow lies thick and wide
And every man goes sorrowing,
Then thou from eve to morn dost sing.
But I, with me I bring all bliss,
My song rejoiceth all, I wis,
Men bless the day they hear my voice,
And at my coming all rejoice.
Blossom and leaf again are seen
On bough of tree, on meadow green;
The lily beauteous doth blow
To welcome me, I'ld have ye know,
And by her fairness doth invite
That I, to her, shall wing my flight.
The rose, that blusheth red, I trow,
And springeth from the thorney bough,
She biddeth me to sing alway
For love of her, a roundelay.
And so I do, by night, by day,
The more I sing, the more I may.
And thus I please them with my song,
That, natheless, lasteth not o'erlong,
For when I see that men be glad
Naught would I do to make them sad,
When I have done what hither brought
My flight, I fare, by wisdom taught.
For when man thinketh on the sheaf,
And yellow hues come on the leaf,
I say, Farewell, and hence I go --
Naught do I reck of winter's woe,
For when hard times I needs must see
I get me home right speedily.
Thus love and thanks I ever know,
In that I come, and that I go.
Once I have done my work, then say,
Why should I bide, and wherefore? Nay,
I hold him no wise man, indeed,
Who lingers where there is no need!"

The Owl in silence sat, and heard,
And held in heart word after word,
And then bethought her how she might
An answer give, both fit and right;
For every man must take good heed
When he, 'gainst trick of word must plead.
"Thou askest me," she quoth, "this thing,
Why I, in winter cry and sing --
It is with men a custom good,
From the beginning hath it stood,
That each good man should, with his friend,
From time to time, in gladness spend
Some hours with him, in house, and board,
With gracious speech, and gracious word,
And specially at Christ's own Feast,
When rich and poor, greatest, and least,
Their Antiphon sing, night and day --
I fain would help them, an I may,
My mind is set on other thing
Than just to play, or eke, to sing,
And, answer were I fain to find,
I have one ready to my mind;
For summer-tide is all too fair,
And man full oft misdoeth there;
For Purity he careth naught,
On Lust, I trow, is all his thought,

. . . . . . . .

"And thou thyself art there among,
In that of Lust is all thy song,

. . . . . . . .

"And when thine hour of passion's o'er
I trow thy song is heard no more.

. . . . . . . .

"Now art thou ta'en, what thinkest thou?
Art rightly overcome, I trow!"

"Nay, Nay," she quoth, the Nightingale,
"Now shalt thou hear another tale,
Not yet our speech fore-judged shall be,
Now hold thee still, and list to me;
With but one word I'll swiftly teach
How all of naught it is, thy speech!"
"That were not right," the Owl then said,
"Thou at thy will thy plaint hast made,
And I have answered even so --
Now, ere we both to judgment go,
Here I set forth my cause 'gainst thee,
Thou, in thy turn, shalt speak 'gainst me,
And answer me, if so thou might!
But tell me now, thou wretched wight,
If thou hast any merit still
Save that thy throat be loud, and shrill?
No good art thou for anything,
Naught dost thou know, save chattering,
For small thou art, and weak shalt be,
Thy plumage nothing is to see,
What good I pray, dost do 'mid men?
No more than doth a wretched wren!
In thee men find none other good
Save that thou criest in the wood,
And if thy song be past and gone
Of other wisdom hast thou none.
King Alfred said, a wise man he,
And well he spake, for true it be:
'There is no man who, for his song,
Is loved or cherished over-long,
For he is but a worthless thing
Who knoweth naught, save how to sing,'
And thou art but a thing of naught,
Nor, save thy chatter, hast thou aught;
Of dim and dull hue art, withal,
Naught but a little sooty ball!

. . . . . . . .

"What dost thou eat, save only lice?
Spiders thou lovest, and foul flies,
And worms, if such thou mayest find
In crevices of bark, and rind.
But true and good my service is,
I watch men's dwellings well, I wis,
And men, they deem my service good,
For that I help them with their food.
The mouse I take in barn withal,
And eke in church, when dusk doth fall;
For dear to me shall be Christ's House,
Gladly I cleanse it from the mouse,
And never shall there come thereto
Vermin, if I my will may do.
And if it so shall please me well
To 'void the place where men may dwell,
I have within the wood a tree,
Thick and well-clad its boughs shall be,
And ivy green doth it o'er grow,
Ever the same that tree shall show;
Its hue, I trow, is never lost,
Whether it be or snow or frost;
Therein I have a sure stronghold,
In winter warm, in summer cold,
My house stands ever bright and green
When of thy dwelling naught is seen."

The Nightingale herself bethought,
Good counsel to her aid she brought,
Seeking 'mid hard and tough, I trow,
Until her rede seemed good enow,
And she an answer fit had found
To do her service at this stound.
"Owl," thus she quoth, "fain would'st thou know
If I another skill may show
Save to sing sweet in summer-tide,
And bliss to spread both far and wide.
Why ask what further skill be mine?
Better my one than all of thine --
Better one song from me to win
Than all the songs of all thy kin --
Hearken, and hear wherefore -- I wot
Man, he was born but to this lot
That he should come to Heaven's bliss,
Which is but song and mirth, I wis,
And every man doth strive thereto
Who aught of good doth know, or do.
Therefore in Holy Church men sing,
And clerks their skill in music bring
That men be minded by their song
Whither they go, and thereto long;
That men shall of true bliss be fain,
And thereof think, thereto attain,
Since by the church good proof is given
How glad shall be the bliss of Heaven.
Thus clerks, and monks, and canons all,
Who dwell within this holy wall,
Rise from their couches at midnight,
And sing a song of Heaven's light;
And priests, throughout the land they sing,
Whenas the light of day doth spring;
And I, I help as best I may
And sing with them both night and day.
And thus for me more joy they know,
For me their song doth swifter flow,
So do I warn men for their good
That they should be of blithesome mood,
And thus I bid them seek alway
That self-same song that lasts for aye.
Now, Owl, thou well mayst sit and blink,
Here is no chatter, so I think,
Ready am I afar to fare
And from the Pope my judgment bear.
Yet, natheless, shalt a little stay
And hear what I have yet to say,
Nor shalt thou, for this English land,
My words with any truth withstand.

. . . . . . . .

"Thou deemest me the worse for this
That but one craft I know, I wis,

. . . . . . . .

"Cast thou thy crafts together, still
The mine shall be the better skill.
The hounds the fox to death can drive,
The cat can save himself alive
Tho' never trick he know save one --
The fox, such good trick knoweth none
Altho' he hath full many a wile,
And deems each hound he may beguile.
The fox knows secret paths enow --
The cat, he hangeth on the bough
So that the hound doth go astray,
And turneth oft another way.
The fox, he thro' the hedge doth crawl,
And from his first path bend withal,
Full oft he doth such cunning show
The dogs the scent no longer know,
Nor know whether, upon the track
'T were best to go afore, or back.
Thus doth the fox his wiles expend
That to his earth he, at the end,
Hath safely come, -- yet, sooth to tell,
Altho' his tricks may serve him well,
Spite of his wiles, at last he'll be
Robbed of his red coat, verily.
The cat, he knows but one trick still,
Whether he fly by fen, or hill,
He knows right well to climb, alway,
So can he ward his coat of gray.
Thus my one craft, I say to thee,
Better than all thy twelve shall be!"

"Abide, abide," the Owl did cry,
"Thy plaint, it leans to treachery,
Thou glozest so thy words alway
That men shall deem thou sooth dost say.
Abide, abide, I'll answer thee
So that all men shall truly see
That here dost much, and greatly, lie,
I'll show thine untruth, verily.
Thou say'st, that by thy song, Mankind
Be taught their way from hence to find
Up to the song that lasts for aye --
In sooth I wonder, and well may,
Thou darest to lie thus openly --
Dost think that thou, so easily,
Shalt bring to Heaven's bliss by song?
Nay, nay, they needs must find ere long
That, with sore tears and weeping, they
Must for their sins still pardon pray
Ere they may hope that bliss to find --
I rede men that they bear in mind
Rather to weep, than thus to sing,
An they would fain see Heaven's King.
For there be no man void of sin,
Therefore needs must, ere hence he win,
That he with grief and tears entreat
He find that sour, that erst was sweet --
Thereto I'll help him as I may
Therefore I sing no empty lay;
My song is all with longing blent,
At whiles it turneth to lament,
That man bethink him well, I wis,
And mourn what he hath done amiss,
Thus would I urge him by my song
To groan for this, his guilt, and wrong.
If here would'st take to arguing
Better I weep than thou dost sing,
If right shall go ahead of wrong
Better my mourning than thy song.
And tho' some men be truly good,
And pure in heart, of righteous mood,
Natheless they yearn from hence to go --
That they be here, it brings them woe,
Tho' they themselves be saved, I ween,
Here have they naught but sorrow keen;
For other's sins they weep alway,
Ever for them Christ's Mercy pray.
Thus in both ways I help enow,
And two-fold aid I give, I trow;
The good I urge to yearning strong,
His longing quickens at my song,
And I the sinful help also,
Teaching, his way doth lead to woe.

. . . . . . . .

"But thou dost sing of lustfulness,
Man finds in thee no holiness.

. . . . . . . .

"Why dost not seek some other land
Where folk in greater need shall stand?
In Ireland thou dost never sing,
To Scotland ne'er thy flight dost wing,
Why dost not fare to Norroway,
Or sing to men of Galloway?
For there be men who little know
Of how a song should sweetly flow;
Why to their priests dost thou not sing
And knowledge of thy trilling bring?
Couldst teach them by thy voice, I wis,
How angels sing in Heavenly bliss.
Nay, as a useless well dost do
That springeth by a streamlet's flow,
The down it leaveth parched and dry
And, useless, runs the waters by.
But I, both North and South I roam,
In every land I be at home,
Both far and near, both East and West,
I do mine office with the best,
And warn men by my voice to heed
Lest thy false song should them mislead.
I warn them well, by this my song,
That they in sin dwell not o'erlong;
I pray them cease their sin alway
Nor that they should themselves betray;
Better by far bemoan them here
Than be the mate of Devils drear!

. . . . . . . .

"Once didst thou sing, 't is sooth indeed,
In lady's bower, and fain would lead
That dame a secret love to know --
There didst thou sing both loud and low,
Wouldst lead her to a deed of shame
And wrong against her wifely fame.
Her lord was well aware that time,
And cunning snare of gin, and lime,
He set to catch thee there withal,
Full soon into the trap didst fall;
Taken thou wast in cunning snare
Fast by the foot it held thee there.
This was thy doom, and this the law,
Wild horses should thy body draw.
Seek, if thou wilt, by evil rede
Or wife, or maiden, to mislead,
Such profit shalt thou win, by hap,
That thou shalt dangle from a trap!"

The Nightingale, at this same word,
With knightly art of spear and sword,
An she were man, were fain to fight,
So hath she done as best she might,
And wise, did ward her with her tongue,
"Who speaks well, fights well," saith the song,
Thus, in her tongue her trust she laid:
"'Who speaks well, fights well,' Alfred said;
Wouldst shame me by this tale? I trow
Thereof the lord had grief enow;
He was so jealous of his wife
That he would not, for very life,
That with another man she spake,
It went full night his heart to break.
He locked her in a bower ere long,
That builded was full sure and strong,
I but took pity on her woe,
And sorrow for her lot would show;
Fain would I please her with my song,
Early I sang, and late, and long.
Therefore the knight with me was wroth,
For envy, I to him was loath,
He thought on me to wreak his shame,
But all was turned to his blame.
Henry the King thereof had dole,
(Jesu have mercy on his soul!)
He set his ban upon the knight
Who thus had sinned against the right
In such a good king's land and state,
For envy sheer, and foulest hate,
A little bird did cruelly snare
And, limb from limb, asunder tear.
'T was to the honour of my kin,
Thereby the knight small joy did win,
He gave for me an hundred pound --
Thereof my birds, much joy they found,
Such bliss was theirs, and sheer delight,
They blithely sang, as well they might,
Since I was so avenged, I hold
My speech henceforth shall be more bold,
Since Fate thus once hath dealt with me,
Ever the blither shall I be.
Now may I sing both loud and low,
No man may wrath against me show.
But thou, thou miserable ghost,
I wot that ne'er a nook thou knowest,
No hollow bush to hide, withal,
Where no man's grasp on thee shall fall.
Master, and servant, children, be
All of one mind to worry thee,
If they may see thee sit alone
Swift do they take to them a stone,
With turf, and stones on thee they fall,
Thy bones are fain to break withal.
If thou to death be smitten, or shot,
Then first art thou of use, I wot,
Men hang thee then upon a stick
And with thy feathers, foul and thick.
And with thy claws that erstwhile fore,
Guardest the wheat, from the barn door.
Tho' thou art naught as flesh and blood
Thou art as scare-crow very good!
And when men would their new seeds sow,
Sparrow, nor goldfinch, rook, nor crow,
Never to come anigh will dare
If so thy body hangeth there.
And so the tree shall surely blow,
And the young seeds shall spring and grow,
And never bird comes there among
If thou shalt be above them hung.
Thy life is vile and foully sped,
Thou art no use, save thou be dead.
So shalt thou know, of surety,
Thy features all right grisley be
The while thou livest, when dost see
That when thou, dead, hanged high shalt be,
They dread of thee the very sight
Those birds, who cried upon thy flight.
I trow with reason men be wroth
'Gainst thee, thy song to them is loath,
Early and late, I trow, thy song
Is ever of man's loss and wrong,
Men well may dread to hear thy cry, --
Thou singest ere some man shall die;
Ever thy song, it bodeth woe --
A man shall loss of riches know;
Perchance a friend shall ruined be;
Perchance his house burnt presently;
Or thieves, or foemen, steal by night;
Or murrain shall his cattle smite;
The folk shall suffer scarcity;
Or wife bereft of husband be;
Ever foretellest misery --
Ever of harm to man dost sing,
Sorrow and poverty dost bring;
In very sooth thou singest ne'er
Save when thou would'st some ill declare.
That thou be shunned by all, 't is meet,
And that men should thee pelt, and beat
With sticks, and stones, with turf, and clout,
So that thou findest no way out.
Woe to the herald who shall ne'er
A message save of evil, bear,
Who ever bringeth tidings ill,
Whose speech is but of mischief still;
Yea, God with him full wroth shall be,
And all who wear such livery!"
The Owl, she tarried not o'erlong,
But gave an answer sharp and strong:
"What?" so she quoth, "shalt cowled be
That thus thou cursest laity?
Priest's office here thou fain wouldst do
Say, hast thou been ordained thereto?
I know not if thou Mass canst sing
But loud enow thy curses ring!
'T is but for thine old jealousy
That thus thou layest blame on me.
Here is an answer good alway;
'Draw to thee!' doth the carter say;
Wouldst here reproach me with insight,
For knowledge deep, and secret might?
For, in good sooth, I be full wise,
And know what in the future lies,
For I of war and famine know;
Whether a man live long, or no;
I know what wife shall widowed be;
What land shall waste and violence see;
Who breathes on gallows his last breath,
Or dies some other evil death;
When men shall forth to battle fare
The victor I could well declare;
I know when pest shall smite the kine;
I know when deer for hunger pine;
Right well I know which tree shall blow;
Right well I know if corn shall grow;
I know which house with fire shall burn;
Who from his foe in flight shall turn;
I know when seas o'er-whelm the ship;
I know when frost and snow shall grip;
And yet I trow I know e'en more --
Well am I learned in book-lore,
And of the Gospels know I well
Far more than I can rightly tell;
For I full oft to churches turn
And much of wisdom there I learn.
Of Symbols I the meaning know,
And many another thing also;
If ill to any man befell
And I its coming may foretell,
Full oft, for this, my mickle wit,
Right sad and sorrowful I sit.
For when I see that woe and ill
Draw near, I must bemoan me still.
I would that men thereof take heed
And find aforetime fitting rede.
Alfred in wisdom spake this word --
He well may ponder who hath heard --
'The ill that thou canst well foresee
Of half its strength it robbed shall be.'
Tho' hard the dints, their force is less
If I keep me in wariness,
And all in vain the shaft shall wing
If thou hast seen it leave the string.
For thou right well may'st turn aside
And flee, if thou its course hast spied.
And if disgrace a man befall
Should he reproach me therewithal?
Tho' I afore his harm have seen
It was not caused by me I ween.
So dost thou see one who is blind,
Who the straight path may nowise find,
Shall follow a false road withal
Till in the ditch and mire he fall.
Dost ween because the harm I see
It therefore falls more speedily?
E'en so it fareth with my wit
The while upon my bough I sit
I know, and see, with sight full clear,
That harm to some man draweth near;
Shall he, who naught thereof may know
Reproach me, if the thing be so?
Shall he the mischief lay to me
Because I wiser am than he?
But when I see that grief and pain
Be nigh to man, I sore complain,
And pray that he himself may guard
For that misfortune's ways be hard.
But tho' I mourn, both loud and still,
All that betides is thro' God's Will.
Then why should men blame me, forsooth,
In that I warn them of the truth?
For tho' I warn throughout the year
Evil to them is not more near,
But for this reason do I sing
That they may understand this thing,
That some misfortune draweth nigh
Whenas they hear me hoot and cry.
For no man so assured hath been
But that he well may dread, I ween,
That harm shall sometime him befall
Altho' he see it not withal.
King Alfred, very well he spake,
(And men his words as Gospel take)
That each man shall the better speed
The better that he taketh heed,
And trusts to none his wealth, I trow,
In haste, tho' folk he have enow.
No heat there be but cold may grow;
No white so pure but stain may know;
Nothing so dear but may wax loath;
No gladness but may make men wroth;
But all that ever was, I wis,
Is fleeting, as is this world's bliss.
Here may'st thou know full speedily
That thou dost speak but giddily,
All that thou sayest for my shame
It turneth ever to thy blame,
Go as it may, it chances yet
Thou fallest to thine own onset;
The words thou dost against me spend
Turn to mine honour in the end,
Nay, better must thy plaint begin
If aught but shame dost think to win!"
The Nightingale, she sat, and sighed,
Right woeful was she at that tide,
For that the Owl spake in this wise
And laid her speech in such like guise.
Good counsel to her heart she laid
Pondering what she thereafter said,
Natheless, her part she understood --
"What, Owl," she quoth, "say, art thou wood?
Of secret wisdom speakest aye,
Thou know'st not whence it comes alway
Save that in witchcraft it hath share;
Thereof, thou wretch, should'st well beware,
If thou midst men in peace would'st be
Else from the land thou need'st must flee,
For all who in such dealings share
From days of yore accursed were
By priest, and such thou yet shalt be --
From witchcraft ne'er hast set thee free.
In such wise did I speak but now
And thou didst ask of me, I trow,
In mockery, if 'cowled' I were,
That ban, it reacheth everywhere,
And tho' no priest in land were seen,
A cursed wretch thou still hadst been.
For every child shall call thee foul,
Each man, 'A miserable owl,' --
Yea, I have heard, and sooth it be,
That men be star-wise, verily,
And thus may future things foretell,
Thou sayest what is known full well.
But, wretch, what know'st thou of a star
Save that thou see'st it from afar?
So doth full many a beast and man
Who of such knowledge nothing can;
An ape may well a book behold
And turn its leaves, its pages fold,
But for all that he knows no more
Nor first, nor last, of clerkly lore;
And thus, tho' thou the stars shalt see
Never the wiser shalt thou be.
Again, foul thing, thou chidest me,
And dost reproach me wrathfully,
Saying, that by my song alway
Wives learn their husbands to betray.
Thou liest, I wis, thou wretched thing,
Shame did I ne'er on marriage bring;
But sooth it is I sing alway
For ladies sweet, and maidens gay.
And sooth it is of love I sing,
For marriage many a wife doth bring
To give to this, her husband true,
A love that ne'er her lover knew.
And maidens well such love may choose
That they their honour never lose,
But love with rightful love that same
Who hath the right their love to claim;
Such love I teach, such love they learn,
Thereto my song their heart doth turn."

. . . . . . . .

The Owl rejoiced at such a tale,
But yet bethought the Nightingale,
Tho' she at first the sooth would say,
At last had somewhat gone astray.
She quoth: "Now, of a sooth, I find
That maidens' weal be in thy mind,
Dost cherish them, and guard them well
And art full fain their praise to tell,
Ladies full often turn to me,
And let me oft their sorrow see.

. . . . . . . .

"For there be husbands manifold
Who know not how a wife to hold,
If others speak with her, I trow,
He deems she'll break her marriage vow;
Nay, to behold if she but dare
Another man, or speak him fair,
He shuts her in with lock and key,
Thereby shall vows oft broken be,
For oft by wrong shall she be brought
To do what ne'er was in her thought.
Woe to him who so swift shall speak
That his wife shall such vengeance wreak!
Thereof the ladies' plaint shall be
Full oft, and sore it troubleth me,
My heart, I trow, for grief is fain
To break, when I behold their pain,
With them I needs must weep full sore,
And pray Christ's Mercy evermore,
To aid that lady ere too late,
And send to her a better mate.
Another tale I'ld now begin:
And thou shalt ne'er, to save thy skin,
With answer fit o'er this prevail
But thy contention here shall fail.
Many a merchant, many a knight,
Doth love, and hold his wife, aright,
And many a bondsman, even so --
The good wife, she the same shall do,
And serves her lord, by bed and board,
With gentle deed, and gentle word,
And ever seeks in service true
The thing that to her lord is due.
Full oft it doth her lord befall
To fare afield, when need doth call,
Then is that good wife sad at heart
In that she from her lord must part;
She sits, and sigheth evermore,
For woe her heart is grieved full sore,
And, all for this her dear lord's sake,
Watcheth by day, by night doth wake,
And very long it seems, the while,
Each step, she deemeth it a mile.
When others sleep her couch about,
I, alone, hearken there without;
And, since I know her mournful mood,
At night I sing, for this, her good,
And of my song, for this, her sake,
Sometime a lamentation make,
Thus, in her sorrow take a share
Therefore she gives me welcome fair.
Thus do I help her all I may
For that she treads the rightful way.
But thou hast shamed me bitterly,
My heart thereof shall heavy be,
So that, in sooth, I scarce may speak
But yet my wrath I needs must wreak.
Thou sayest, that I to man be loth,
That every man is with me wroth;
With sticks and stones doth threaten me,
Beats me, and tears me, willingly;
And when at last I shall be slain
To take and hang me they be fain,
That I may scare the pie and crow
From off the furrows where they sow.
Say it were sooth, I do them good,
And for their profit shed my blood,
I die, and serve them at that same --
Wherefore to thee the greater blame;
When thou art dead, shrivelled and dry,
Thy death helps no man, verily!
In sooth, I know not how it might
For thou art but a wretched wight!
But tho' my life be shot away
Good service may I do alway,
For men may set me on a stick
There, where the wood grows close and thick,
And thus may draw unto their snare
The little birds, and catch them there.
And so thro' me it doth befall
Man findeth roast for food withal --
But thou, thou ne'er, alive or dead,
To profit man didst stand in stead,
I know not why dost rear thy brood
Alive, or dead, thou art no good!"

The Nightingale heard well enow
And hopped upon the leafy bough;
Higher she perched than she did ere --
"Owl," so she quoth, "now be thou ware,
With thee I think to plead no more
For thou hast lost the rightful lore,
Thou criest, thou to man art loth,
That every man with thee is wroth;
That with thy cry, and with thy yell,
Thou art accurst, thou knowest well.
Thou say'st that grooms take thee in snare,
High on a rod they hang thee there,
They tear thee, and in pieces shake,
And some a scare-crow of thee make.
Methinks, that thou hast lost the game,
Thou criest aloud of thine own shame,
Methinks, dost play into mine hand
Crying thy shame throughout the land."
When she had said this word, I trow,
She sat her on a leafy bough
And lifted up her voice on high
And sang so shrill, so piercingly,
That far and near men heard her song --
Anon, unto that tree they throng,
Thrush, throstle, wood-hatch, song-birds all,
Of fowls, I trow, both great and small,
For that they deemed the Nightingale
The Owl had vanquished, without fail,
Therefore they cried and sang, I wis,
Among the boughs with mickle bliss.
E'en so men heap upon him shame
Who, playing dice, hath lost the game.
The Owl the clamour heard withal:
"Would'st thou," she cried, "an army call?
And would'st thou, wretch, against me fight?
Nay, nay, thereto hast thou no might.
Why dost thou call them here to thee?
Methinks, would'st lead them against me,
But thou shalt know, ere hence thou go,
How my kin guard them 'gainst a foe,
All they whose bills be strong and hooked,
All they whose claws be sharp and crooked,
All they be of my kin, indeed,
All they will come to me at need.
The very cock, who well can fight,
Should hold with me, I trow, of right,
We both have voices loud and strong,
And both, by night we sing our song;
Should I my loudest cry 'gainst thee
The stronger army mine should be.
'Pride goeth aye before a fall';
A turf were more than worth ye all!
And ere the day be turned to eve
I'ld not a quill upon ye leave.
But 't was our forward fast and true
Ere yet to thither-ward we drew,
That we should other daysman seek
Who judgment fair 'twixt us should speak,
And now would'st from that forward shrink --
The judgment all too hard dost think!
Never thou durst that doom abide
So would'st thou, wretch, now fight and chide.
But would ye all my counsel take
Ere hue and cry 'gainst ye I make,
Then ye our strife would now let be,
And from this place would swiftly flee
For, by the claws of which I boast,
If ye should now await my host,
Ye soon another song shall sing,
And curse all strife and quarrelling,
For none so keen shall be this tide,
I trow, mine onslaught to abide."
The Owl, she spake right valiantly,
Tho' she would not, so speedily,
After her army straightway fare,
Yet would she, natheless, answer there
The Nightingale with fitting word --
For many a man, with spear and sword,
Hath little strength, or e'en with shield,
But yet may well upon the field,
With valiant words, so brave appear
He makes his foe to sweat for fear.
The wren, who sang well, at that same,
In morning-tide, she thither came,
To help the Nightingale withal;
For tho' her voice, it was but small,
Her notes were very clear and shrill,
And many songs had she at will;
The wren for wise men ever hold,
Tho' she were born upon the wold,
Yet among men had she been taught,
And all her lore from them she brought,
And she might speak where'er she would,
Before the King, if so she should.
"Listen," she quoth, "the word I'll take,
What, think ye here the peace to break,
And do unto the King such shame?
Yet is he neither dead nor lame,
And harm and shaming shall ye win
An ye break peace his land within.
Let be, and make your peace, I pray,
And to your judgment go straightway,
And take the verdict on your plea
E'en as ye sware it so should be."
"That will I," quoth the Nightingale,
"Yet, Wren, I go not for thy tale
But all for sake of lawfulness;
I would not, of unrighteousness
Be at the ending overcome --
In sooth, I fear for no man's doom,
But I have said, and hold for truth,
That Master Nichole, who, in sooth,
Is wise, should judge between us two,
And still I deem he so will do.
But say, where shall we find him now?"
The Wren sat on a linden bough;
"What, know ye not," quoth she, "his home?
He dwelleth sure at Portesholme,
In Dorset that same town shall be
Beside an inlet of the sea.
There judgment doth he deal aright,
And many wise saws doth indite,
And thro' his mouth, and thro' his hand,
Bettered we be to Scottish land.
Easy it is to seek his face
For he hath but one dwelling-place.
I trow that doth the bishops shame,
And every man who of his name
Hath heard, and knoweth of his deed --
Why seek they not from him good rede
That he among them oft shall be
To teach them wisdom, verily,
Find him a place, and goodly rent,
That so his time with them be spent?"

"Certes," the Owl quoth, "that is so,
And these rich men much wrong they do
When they a good man leave aside --
(Who is in wisdom true and tried --)
And office give to whom they will
Unheeding, and neglect him still.
But with their kin are they more free,
And children office-holders be,
Ill judgment on their wit they pass,
As sheweth Master Nicholas.
But let us now unto him fare
For judgment swift awaits us there."
"That do we," quoth the Nightingale,
"But who shall now rehearse our tale,
And set it forth ere judgment fall?"
"That," quoth the Owl, "I'll do withal,
For our debate, in order fair,
Word after word, I will declare,
And if thou think'st I speak amiss
Then shalt thou check my tale, I wis."
Then with these words away they flew
Alone, nor followers with them drew;
To Portesholme, I trow, they came,
But how they fared at that same
That can I you in no wise tell,
I know no more of what befell.
Explicit.





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