Then come Philip, ful redy dight,
Toward the toun, with all his rowt,
With him come mani a kumly knight,
And all umset the bare obout.

The bare made tham ful law to lout,
And delt tham knokkes to thaire mede;
He gert them stumbill that war stout,
Thare helpid nowther staf ne stede.

Stedes strong bilevid still

Biside Cressy opon the grene;

Sir Philip wanted all his will,

That was wele on his sembland sene. With spere and schelde and helmis schene, The bare than durst thai noght habide:

The king of Beme was cant and kene,
Bot thare he left both play and pride.

Pride in prese ne prais i noght,

Omang thir princes prowd in pall; Princes suld be wele bithoght,

When kinges suld tham tyll counsail call

If he be rightwis king, thai sall

Maintene him both night and day,

Or els to lat his frendschip fall

On faire manere, and fare oway.

Oway es all thi wele, i wis,

Franche-man, with all thi fare;
Of murning may thou never mys,

For thou ert cumberd all in care:
With speche ne moght thou never spare
To speke of Ingliss-men despite;
Now have thai made thi biging bare,
Of all thi catell ertou quite.

Quite ertou, that wele we knaw,
Of catell, and of drewris dere,

Tharfore lies thi hert ful law,

That are was blith als brid on brere. Inglis-men sall zit to-zere

Knok thi palet or thou pas,

And mak the polled like a frere;
And zit es Ingland als it was.

Was thou noght, Franceis, with thi wapin, Bitwixen Cressy and Abvyle,

Whare thi felaws lien and gapin,

For all thaire treget and thaire gile? Bischoppes war thare in that while, That songen all withouten stole : Philip the Valas was a file,

He fled, and durst noght tak his dole.

Men delid thare ful mani a dint
Omang the gentill Geneuayse;
Ful many man thaire lives tint,
For luf of Philip the Valays.
Unkind he was and uncurtayse,

I prais nothing his purviance;
The best of France and of Artayse
War al to-dongyn in that daunce.

That daunce with treson was bygun,
To trais the bare with sum fals gyn:
The Franche-men said, All es wun,

Now es it tyme that we bigin;
For here es welth inogh to win,
To make us riche for evermore :

Bot, thurgh thiare armure thik and thin, Slaine thai war, and wounded sore.

Sore than sighed sir Philip,

Now wist he never what him was best;

For he es cast doun with a trip,

In John of France es all his trest;

For he was his frend faithfulest,

In him was full his affiance:

Bot sir Edward wald never rest,

Or thai war feld the best of France.

Of France was mekill wo, i wis,
And in Paris the high palays:

Now had the bare, with mekill blis,
Bigged him bifor Calais.

Heres now how the romance sais,

How sir Edward, oure king with croune,

Held his sege, bi nightes and dais,
With his men bifor Calays toune.

D

VII.

HOW EDWARD, ALS THE ROMANCE SAIS,

HELD HIS SEGE BIFOR CALAIS.

CALAIS MEN, now may ze care,

And murning mun ze have to mede; Mirth on mold get ze no mare,

Sir Edward sall ken zow zowre crede. Whilum war ze wight in wede,

To robbing rathly for to ren;

Men zow sone of zowre misdede,
Zowre care es cumen, will ze it ken.

Kend it es how ze war kene

Al Inglis-men with dole to dere; Thaire gudes toke ze albidene,

No man born wald ze forbere;

Ze spared noght, with swerd ne spere,

To stik tham, and thaire gudes to stele;

With wapin and with ded of were,

Thus have ze wonnen werldes wele.