Cum thou more on that coste

Thi bale sall bigin: Thare kindels thi care,

Kene men sall the kepe, And do the dye on a day, And domp in the depe.

Ze broght out of Bretayne
Zowre custom with care,
Ze met with the marchandes
And made tham ful bare;
It es gude reson and right
That ze evill misfare,
When ze wald in Ingland
Lere of a new lare:

New lare sall ze lere,

Sir Edward to lout

For when ze stode in zowre strenkith

Ze war all to stout.

X.

HOW GENTILL SIR EDWARD, WITH HIS

GRETE ENGINES,

WAN WITH HIS WIGHT MEN THE CAS

TELL OF GYNES.

WAR this winter oway,

Wele wald i wene

That somer suld schew him

In schawes ful schene;
Both the lely and the lipard

Suld geder on a grene.
Mari, have minde of thi man,

Thou whote wham i mene;
Lady, think what i mene,

I mak thee my, mone ;
Thou wreke gude king Edward
On wikked syr John.

Of Gynes ful gladly

Now will i bigin,

We wote wele that woning

Was wikked for to win:

Crist, that swelt on the rode,
For sake of mans syn,
Hald tham in gude hele

That now er tharein!

Inglis-men er tharein,

The kastell to kepe;

And John of France es so wroth For wo will he wepe.

Gentill John of Doncaster
Did a ful balde dede,

When he come toward Gines

To ken tham thaire crede; He stirt unto the castell

Withowten any stede,

Of folk that he fand thare

Haved he no drede;

Dred in hert had he none

Of all he fand thare;

Faine war thai to fle,

For all thaire grete fare.

A letherin ledderr,

And a lang line,

A small bote was tharby,

E

That put tham fro pine; The folk that thai fand thare Was faine for to fyne; Sone thaire diner was dight,

And thare wald thai dine;

Thare was thaire purpose
To dine and to dwell,

For treson of the Franche-men,
That fals war and fell.

Say now, sir John of France,
How saltou fare,

That both Calays and Gynes
Has kindeld thi care?

If thou be man of mekil might,

Lepe up on thi mare,

Take thi gate unto Gines,

And grete tham wele thare;

Thare gretes thi gestes,

And wendes with wo,

King Edward has wonen

The kastell tham fro.

Ze men of Saint-Omers,
Trus ze this tide,

And puttes out zowre paviliownes

With zowre mekill pride;

Sendes efter sir John of Fraunce To stand by zowre syde,

A bore es boun zow to biker,

That wele dar habide;

Wel dar he habide

Bataile to bede,

And of zowre sir John of Fraunce

Haves he no drede.

God save sir Edward his right

In everilka nede,--

And he that will noght so,

Evil mot he spede;

And len oure sir Edward

His life wele to lede,

That he may at his ending

Have hevin till his mede.
AMEN.