'Every word here is a wonder'

Nativity (Royal MS 17 E VII 2, f.134, 14th century)

I've just written a short piece for the classical music website Corymbus on the medieval carol 'As I lay on Yule's night'. It's a beautiful and poignant lullaby carol, and you can read about it here.

This carol survives in several versions, but the one I discussed comes from a manuscript compiled by a Norfolk friar, John of Grimestone, in 1372. (The manuscript is now Edinburgh, National Library of Scotland, Advocates MS. 18.7.21.) It seems to have been John's preaching handbook, in which he collected texts and materials for use in his sermons. His collection includes several tender poems about or addressed to the infant Christ, as well as the one described in my article: this lullaby (Lullay, lullay, little child/Thou who wast so stern and wild), 'Learn to love as I love thee', and 'Lullay, little child, rest thee a throwe'.

Alongside these longer poems, the manuscript also contains numerous miniature verses in English - mostly translations of Latin proverbs or verse tags - of the kind a medieval preacher might slip into a sermon. They are very short, often just couplets, and there are more than two hundred of them in total (here's a list). I find them strangely fascinating, in their extreme brevity and pithiness, so here are a few of my favourites. First, four lines 'on pleasures worth attending to':

To þe flour springende
To þe foul singende
To þe deu fallende
To þe snow meltende

To the flower springing
To the bird singing
To the dew falling
To the snow melting.

Good advice! On the dangers of wasting time (lorn = lost):

For lore of godes I wepe sore
but more for lore of day
Þou godes ben lorn I may han more
Time lorn aȝen comen ne may.

For loss of goods I weep sore
But more for loss of day;
Though goods be lorn I may get more;
Time lorn I never may.

On wisdom:

He is wis þat can ben war or he is wo
He is wis þat louet is frend & is fo
He is wis þat hat inou & þanne seit Ho
He is wis þat dotȝ ay wel an seit ay so

He is wise who can beware before he comes to woe;
He is wise who loves his friend and his foe;
He is wise who has enough and then says ‘Whoa!’
He is wise who does ever well and says ever so.

On study and sin:

Bisiliche ȝef þe to lore
Als þu suldest liuen eueremore
But fle senne in ich a play
As to morwen sulde ben þi ded day

Busily give yourself to lore [learning]
As if you should live evermore;
But flee sin in every play [pleasure]
As if tomorrow were your dying day.

Why you should beware of praise:

To eueri preysing is knit a knot
Þe preysing wer good ne wer þe but
I ne woth neuere wer it may ben founde
Þat with sum but it is ibounde

Within all praise is knit a knot:
Praise would be good, were it not for the 'but';
I know not where it may be found
Where with a ‘but’ it isn't bound.

And so on...

These miniature texts intersect with John's longer poems in interesting ways. The tender approach to children found in the lullaby lyrics is also noticeable in these verses, as in this couplet:

Children ben litel brith & schene & eþe for to fillen
Suetliche pleyȝende fre of ȝifte & eþe for to stillen

Children are little, bright and fair, and easy to satisfy;
Sweetly playing, free with giving, and easy to pacify.

And the poignancy of the lullaby lyrics is there too:

With a sorwe & a clut
Al þis werd comet in & out

With a sorrow and a clout
All this world comes in and out.

A 'clout' is a cloth, a winding-sheet, such as both infants and corpses are wrapped in. The idea here, vividly expressed, is that the beginning and end of life are in many ways very similar. This couplet succinctly encapsulates a poetic conceit explored at much greater length in the lullaby lyrics (especially 'Lullay, little child, rest thee a throwe'): that the crying of a baby, and perhaps also here the pain of childbirth, is a kind of foreshadowing of life's inevitable sorrows. The idea is that a baby, who cries without understanding why it's crying, has cause indeed to cry, because it has been born helpless into a world full of pain. The lullaby lyrics apply this to Christ by having him speak of his painful future and his death, not because it is unique to him, but because it is the common human fate he has chosen to share. The difference is that the baby Christ, the infant Word, knows it and (in these poems) can articulate it, where an ordinary baby has only a wordless cry.

'With a sorrow and a clout / All this world comes in and out.' John of Grimestone's language here finds an echo in the Christmas sermon of a later preacher, Lancelot Andrewes, describing how 'He that cometh here in clouts, He will come in the clouds one day':

We may well begin with Christ in the cratch; we must end with Christ on the cross. The cratch is a sign of the cross... To be swaddled thus as a child, doth that offend? What then when ye shall see Him pinioned and bound as a malefactor? To lie in a manger, is that so much? How then, when ye see shall Him hang on the cross? But so, — primo... ne discrepet imum, 'that His beginning and His end may suit well and not disagree', sic oportuit Christum nasci, 'thus ought Christ to be born', and this behoved to be His sign...

Signs are taken for wonders. 'Master, we would fain see a sign,' that is a miracle. And in this sense it is a sign to wonder at. Indeed, every word here is a wonder. An infant, Verbum infans, the Word without a word; the eternal Word not able to speak a word... swaddled; and that a wonder too. 'He,' that (as in the thirty-eighth of Job he saith), "taketh the vast body of the main sea, turns it to and fro, as a little child, and rolls it about with the swaddling bands of darkness' — He to come thus into clouts, himself! 3. But yet, all this is well; all children are so. But in præsepi, that is it, there is the wonder. Children lie not there; He doth. There lieth He, the Lord of glory without glory. Instead of a palace, a poor stable; of a cradle of state, a beast's cratch; no pillow but a lock of hay; no hangings but dust and cobwebs; no attendants, but in medio animalium, as the Fathers read the third of Habakkuk. For if the inn were full, the stable was not empty we may be sure. A sign, this, nay three in one, able to amaze any...

For loquitor signis, 'signs have their speech,' and this is no dumb sign. What saith it then to us? Christ, though as yet He cannot speak as a new-born babe, yet by it He speaks, and out of His crib, as a pulpit, this day preaches to us; and His theme is, Discite a Me, 'Learn of Me, for I am humble,' humble in My birth ye all see. This is the præcipe of the præsepe, as I may call it, the lesson of Christ's cratch.

This is from a sermon preached in 1618. Poetry and preaching can be very close together, as John of Grimestone knew; and Andrewes' words are probably best known today not from his sermon but via Eliot's Gerontion:

Signs are taken for wonders. “We would see a sign”:
The word within a word, unable to speak a word,
Swaddled with darkness. In the juvescence of the year
Came Christ the tiger

In depraved May, dogwood and chestnut, flowering judas,
To be eaten, to be divided, to be drunk
Among whispers.

Þa hyrdas ða spræcon him betweonan, æfter ðæra engla fram-færelde, "Uton gefaran to Bethleem, and geseon þæt word þe geworden is, and God us geswutelode." Eala hu rihtlice hi andetton þone halgan geleafan mid þisum wordum! "On frymðe wæs word, and þæt word wæs mid Gode, and þæt word wæs God". Word bið wisdomes geswutelung, and þæt Word, þæt is se Wisdom, is acenned of ðam Ælmihtigum Fæder, butan anginne; forðan ðe he wæs æfre God of Gode, Wisdom of ðam wisan Fæder. Nis he na geworht, forðan ðe he is God, and na gesceaft; ac se Ælmihtiga Fæder gesceop þurh ðone Wisdom ealle gesceafta, and hi ealle ðurh þone Halgan Gast geliffæste.

The shepherds then spoke amongst themselves, after the departure of the angels: "Let us go to Bethlehem, and see þæt word þe geworden is [the thing which has come to pass], which God has made known to us." O, how rightly they confessed the holy faith with these words! "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God." A word is the revealing of wisdom, and the Word, which is the Wisdom, is brought forth from the Almighty Father, without beginning; for he was ever God of God, Wisdom of the Wise Father. He is not created, because he is God, and no created thing; the Almighty God created all created things through that Wisdom, and gave them life through the Holy Ghost.

And this is Ælfric, preaching on the same text as Lancelot Andrewes, six hundred years earlier. Ælfric was a poet too, and a lover of language; and þæt word þe geworden is, Ælfric's version of 'this thing which has come to pass', is literally a 'word within a word', since word is wrapped inside geworden. (I wrote about this at greater length here). 'Every word here is a wonder'!

Nativity from BL Stowe 12, which is (like John of Grimestone) from 14th-century Norfolk

'Lullay, little child, rest thee a throwe'

BL Harley 2915 f. 138v

This is an exquisitely sad nativity song, a lullaby addressed to the baby Christ, but full of compassion and pain and regret for the suffering that the child will later undergo. It dates to the fourteenth century and comes from a manuscript compiled by a Franciscan friar, John of Grimestone.

Lullay, lullay, litel child, child, rest thee a throwe,
From heighe hider art thou sent wyth us to wonen lowe;
Poure and litel art thou made, uncouth and unknowe,
Pyne and wo to suffren heer for thyng that nas thyn owe.
Lullay, lullay, litel child, sorwe mythe thou make;
Thou are sent into this world, as thou were forsake.

Lullay, lullay, litel grome, kyng of alle thyng,
What I thenke of thy myschief me listeth wel litel synge;
But caren I may for sorwe, if love were in myn herte,
For swiche peynes as thou shalt dreyen were nevere non so smerte.
Lullay, lullay, litel child, wel myghte thou crie,
For-than thy body is bleik and blak, soon after shal ben drye.

Child, it is a wepyng dale that thou art comen in;
Thy poure cloutes it proven wel, thy bed made in the bynne;
Cold and hunger thou most thoeln, as thou were geten in synne,
And after deyen on the tree for love of all mankynne.
Lullay, lullay, litel child, no wonder thogh thou care,
Thou art comen amonges hem that thy deeth shullen yare.

Lullay, lullay, litel child, for sorwe myghte thou grete;
The anguissh that thou suffren shalt shal don the blood to swete;
Naked, bounden shaltow ben, and sithen sore bete,
No thyng free upon thy body of pyne shal ben lete.
Lullay, lullay, litel child, it is al for thy fo,
The harde bond of love-longyng that thee hath bounden so.

Lullay, lullay, litel child, litel child, thyn ore!
It is al for oure owene gilt that thou art peyned sore.
But wolden we yet kynde ben and lyven after thy lore,
And leten synne for thy love, ne keptest thou no more.
Lullay, lullay, litel child, softe sleep and faste,
In sorwe endeth every love but thyn atte laste.

John of Grimestone seems to have had a fondness for lullaby poems of this kind, since his manuscript also includes this lullaby and this on roughly the same subject. 'Lullay, lullay, little child, child, rest thee a throwe' is also close in style and theme to this poem in the same metre, which is not addressed to Christ but to an ordinary baby. In both cases the central image is of a crying child, innocent and uncomprehending, who weeps for no reason - and yet has a reason to weep, though he doesn't know it, because of the world he has been born into.

Here's a lightly modernised version, preserving the rhymes and some of the rhythm:

Lullay, lullay, little child, child, rest thee a throwe, [a little while]
From on high hither art thou sent, with us to dwell low;
Poor and little art thou made, unrecognised and unknown,
Pain and woe to suffer here for a crime that was not thine own.
Lullay, lullay, little child, sorrow thou mayst well make;
Thou art sent into this world, as if thou were forsaken.

Lullay, lullay, little boy, king of all things!
When I think of thy sad state, I hardly wish to sing;
But I may lament for sorrow, if love be in my heart,
For such pains as thou shalt suffer were never none so sharp.
Lullay, lullay, little child, well mayst thou cry,
Thy body then will grow pale and white, and then it shall grow dry.

Child, it is a weeping world that thou art comen in;
Thy poor rags prove that well, thy bed made in the bin; [manger]
Cold and hunger thou must endure, as one begot in sin,
And after die upon the tree for love of all mankyn. [mankind]
Lullay, lullay, little child, no wonder that thou cry;
Thou art come among those who shall cause thee to die.

Lullay, lullay, little child, for sorrow thou mayst well grete; [cry]
The anguish that thou suffer shalt shall cause thee blood to sweat;
Naked, bound, shalt thou be, and afterwards sorely beat, [beaten]
No part of thy body free of pain shall be lete. [left]
Lullay, lullay, little child, it is all for thy foe,
The hard bond of love-longing that has bound thee so.

Lullay, lullay, little child, little child, thine ore! [mercy]
It is all for our guilt that thou art pained so sore.
But would we yet more loving be, and live after thy lore, [according to your teaching]
And forsake sin for thy love’s sake, ne keptest thou no more. [your suffering would be over]
Lullay, lullay, little child, softly sleep and fast;
In sorrow endeth every love but thine, at the last.

BL Harley 947 f. 170

That last couplet is so memorable. This loving, tender look ahead from the birth of the baby Christ to the suffering and death which awaits him is a sombre theme for Christmastide - perhaps surprisingly so for modern taste, but very much in harmony with medieval attitudes to the season. Many medieval writers about Christmas would have felt it gave only an incomplete picture of the Incarnation to celebrate Christ's birth without remembering too the death he came to suffer; to talk about one and neglect the other can fail to give the magnitude of his birth in a mortal human body its full weight and meaning. In the Middle Ages Christmas was a season of light and shade, not constant full-out festivity. The Twelve Days of Christmas were a time of holiday and celebration, but within that joyous season the feasts which clustered around Christmas Day involved violent stories of martyrdom: the second and fifth days of Christmas were the feasts of St Stephen, Christianity's first martyr, and St Thomas Becket, whose blood stained the stones of Canterbury Cathedral in Christmastide 1170. The eighth day commemorated Christ's Circumcision, the first time (medieval preachers say) that Christ's blood was shed.

And today, the fourth day of Christmas, is the feast of the Holy Innocents, commemorating the children slain by Herod as he sought to kill the infant Christ. Since the Anglo-Saxon period this has been known in English as 'Childermas' - the feast of the children. John of Grimestone's grief-filled lullaby finds an echo in the most famous text associated with the Childermas story, the Coventry Carol, a sad, strange medieval lullaby which still exerts a strong power:

Lullay, lullay, thou little tiny child,
By, by, lully, lullay.
Lullay, lullay, thou little tiny child.
By, by, lully, lullay.

O sisters two, how may we do,
For to preserve this day
This poor youngling for whom we do sing,
By, by, lully, lullay.

Herod the king, in his raging,
Charged he hath this day
His men of might, in his own sight,
All young children to slay.

Then woe is me, poor child, for thee,
And ever mourn and may,
For thy parting, neither say nor sing,
By, by, lully, lullay.

The Coventry Carol wasn't written for Christmas or Childermas; it's part of the cycle of the Coventry Mystery Plays, which would have been performed in the summer. The Massacre of the Innocents formed a regular part of mystery play cycles, following straight after plays depicting more joyful parts of the Nativity story, such as the visits of the Shepherds and the Magi. Like the Twelve Days of Christmas, mystery play cycles were an experience of juxtaposition and contrast, light and shade, shifting moods and emotions as different aspects of the Christian story were explored in turn.

Mystery plays about the Massacre of the Innocents offer some of the most moving depictions of grief in medieval culture. We see innocent babies killed because of a cruel tyrant's lust for power, and we see their mothers mourn. It's confronting and painful, and it doesn't allow you to look away. At one moment there's the Nativity, Mary and her baby, a happy image of parenthood and infancy; and then there's the other side of parental love, with grief, loss and despair. 'Longe lullynge have I lorn!', says one mother in the N-town Plays, as if remembering all the lullabies she's sung to her baby, all those long hours watching over the cradle, now lost because her child lies dead in her arms. She can see nothing but grief in her future: 'Sorrow I see behind and before / Both midnight, midday and at morn'.

The Coventry Carol is born of this particular story of grief, but over time it has come to speak for other losses. After centuries of suppression and neglect, there was a revival of interest in the mystery plays in the first half of the twentieth century. On Christmas Day 1940, the first Christmas after the terrible bombing of Coventry in the Second World War, the BBC broadcast a message from the ruins of Coventry Cathedral which included the singing of the Coventry Carol. It was a lament, but also a sign of hope and endurance: 'He suffers alongside of us, just as this Cathedral suffered the same fate as the city. He lost everything he had, and won the world. Nothing can destroy Him, any more than, in the words of our ancient Coventry Carol, 'Herod the King in his raging' could slay the Christ Child.'

Of the many hundreds of surviving medieval carols, the Coventry Carol is one of the very small number which have now found their way into the modern Christmas repertoire. It's regularly heard and performed at Christmas, widely known and recognised, both with its original haunting melody and in a diversity of new settings. It's a peculiar journey for a song from a medieval mystery play to take, from the streets of 16th-century Coventry to concert-halls and shopping malls, sung by everyone from Sting to Annie Lennox and the most unlikely performers. The popularity of this deeply sad song at Christmastime is intriguing, and it makes me wonder what draws people to it today in our very different Christmas season. Whatever it is, perhaps it's something akin to what drew John of Grimestone and other medieval readers to lullabies like 'Lullay, little child'. There are in fact a considerable number of medieval lullabies which share the mood of the Coventry Carol: somewhere between lullaby and lament, full of melancholy and pity for the child being comforted, whether it's Herod's victims, the Christ-child, or any baby born into a weeping world. (Here are some more beautiful examples: 'This endris night / about midnight'; 'This maiden hight Mary'; 'As I lay on Yule's night'; 'Learn to love as I love thee'; 'Mary hath borne alone') They use the lullaby form, the genre of song above all others associated with tenderness, vulnerability, comfort and love, to explore deeply poignant and painful ideas of the nature of human sorrow.

I wonder if the popularity of the Coventry Carol today indicates that it expresses something people don't find in the usual run of joyful Christmas carols - this song of grief, of innocence cruelly destroyed. The Feast of the Holy Innocents is not an easy subject for a modern audience to understand, and the images which often accompany it in medieval manuscripts, of children impaled on spears, are truly horrible. But they are meant to be; they are intended to disgust and horrify, and they're horrible because they're not fantasy violence but all too close to the reality of the world we live in. Children do die; the innocent and vulnerable do suffer at the hands of the powerful; and as this carol says, every single form of human love, one way or another, will ultimately end in parting and grief. Every child born into the world - every tiny, innocent, adorable little baby - however loved, however cared for, will grow up to face some kind of sorrow, and the inevitability of death. Of course no one wants to think about such things, especially when they look at a newborn baby; but pretending otherwise, not wanting to think otherwise, doesn't make it any less true.

Medieval writers were honest and clear-eyed about such uncomfortable truths. The idea that thoughts like these are incongruous with the Christmas season (as you often hear people say about the Holy Innocents) is largely a modern scruple, encouraged by the comparatively recent idea that Christmas is primarily a cheery festival for happy children and families. Our images of Christmas joy, both secular and sacred, are all childlike wonder and picture-perfect families gathered round the tree. And this is nice, of course, for those who have children or happy families, but for those who don't - those who have lost children or parents or others dear to them, those who face loneliness or exclusion, those who want but don't have children, family, or home - it can be intensely painful. Not everyone can choose not to think about grief at Christmas; many people will find it intrudes upon them, whether they wish it to or not. 'In sorrow endeth every love but thine, at the last'. The modern version of Christmas tends to sideline and ignore that pain, asking it to at least keep quiet so as not to spoil the 'magic'. But that's not the case with medieval writing about Christmas and the Christ-child. There are, of course, many merry and joyful medieval carols, and the season was celebrated in the Middle Ages with great enthusiasm; but there are also many carols like this which are serious, melancholy, and sad, which acknowledge the fact that the child whose birth is celebrated came to earth to die. Older writings on Christmas, like this lullaby, do not exclude but encompass human pain - because it's that pain, they say, which Christ has come to earth to share. That was what it meant for God to become a human child. The idea is well expressed by John Donne, writing a little later than the medieval period (though only a few decades after the Coventry mystery plays were abolished), in a sermon he preached on Christmas Day 1626:

The whole life of Christ was a continual passion; others die martyrs, but Christ was born a martyr. He found a Golgotha, where he was crucified, even in Bethlehem, where he was born; for, to his tenderness then, the straws were almost as sharp as the thorns after; and the manger as uneasy at first, as his cross at last. His birth and his death were but one continual act, and his Christmas Day and his Good Friday are but the evening and morning of one and the same day.

John of Grimestone's poem perfectly illustrates that idea.

BL Arundel 302 f. 152

Thou little baron, thou little king

This lullaby carol is from a manuscript of the 1370s, which belonged to a Franciscan friar named John of Grimestone. The manuscript is a kind of 'commonplace book' with notes for his own preaching, mostly in Latin, and various short poems jotted down throughout - perhaps things he had composed himself, or things he had heard and liked.

In this carol a sinner, standing in for all mankind, addresses the infant Christ. Note that the refrain also appears in this poem (as well as in some others), suggesting the phrase had a wide currency.


Refrain: Lullay, lullay, little child,
Why weepest thou so sore?

Lullay, lullay, little child,
Thou who wast so stern and wild, [mighty]
Now art become meek and mild,
To save those who were forlore. [lost]

But for my sin I know it is
That God's Son has suffered this:
Mercy, Lord, I have done amiss!
Indeed, I will never more.

Against my Father's will I chose
An apple, with a rewful res; [in a lamentable frenzy]
Therefore my heritage I lost,
And now thou weepest therefore.

An apple I took from a tree;
God it had forbidden me;
For that I ought damned to be,
If it were not for thy weeping.

Lullay for woe, thou little thing,
Thou little baron, thou little king;
Mankind is the cause of thy mourning,
That thou hast loved so yore. [so long]

For man that thou hast aye loved so,
Yet shalt thou suffer pains mo, [yet more pain]
In head, in feet, in hands too,
And yet weep well more.

That pain us make of sin free,
That pain us bring, Jesu, to thee,
That pain us help aye to flee
The wicked fiend's lore.

[May that pain free us from sin; may that pain bring us, Jesu, to thee; may that pain ever help us to flee the teaching of the wicked fiend]


Here it is in something closer to the original spelling (John of Grimestone's commonplace book is now Edinburgh, National Library of Scotland, MS Advocates 18.7.21):

Refrain: Lullay, lullay, litel child,
Why wepest thou so sore?

Lullay, lullay, litel child,
Thou that were so sterne and wild
Now art become meke and mild,
To saven that was forlore.

But for my senne I wot it is
That Godes Sone suffret this:
Mercy, Lord, I have do mis;
Iwis, I wile no more.

Ayenis my Fadres wille I ches
An appel with a rewful res;
Werfore myn heritage I les,
And nou thou wepest therfore.

An appel I tok off a tre;
God it hadde forboden me;
Wherfore I shulde dampned be,
Yef thy weping ne wore.

Lullay for wo, thou litel thing,
Thou litel barun, thou litel king;
Mankinde is cause of thy murning,
That thou hast loved so yore.

For man that thou hast ay loved so,
Yet shaltou suffren peines mo,
In heved, in feet, in hondes to,
And yet wepen wel more.

That peine us make of senne fre,
That peine us bringe Jesu to thee,
That peine us helpe ay to fle
The wickede fendes lore.

'Learn to love as I love thee'

Nativity (BL Harley 2915, f.28)

Learn to love as I love thee.
In all my limbs thou mayest see
How sore they quake for cold;
For thee I suffer all this woe,
Love me, sweet, and no mo; [no other]
To thee me take and hold.

Jesu, sweet son dear,
In poor bed thou liest now here,
And that grieveth me sore.
For thy cradle is a bier,
Ox and ass are thy fere, [companions]
Weep may I therefore!

Jesu, sweet, be not wroth;
I have neither scrap nor cloth
Thee in for to fold;
I have but a piece of a lappe, [the fold of a cloak]
Therefore lay thy feet to my pap
And keep thee from the cold.

Cold thee taketh, I may well see;
For love of man it must be
For thee to suffer woe;
For better it is thou suffer this
Than man should lose heaven's bliss.
Thou must ransom him thereto.

Since it must be that thou be dead
To save man from the fiend,
Thy sweet will be done.
But let me not stay here too long:
After thy death me underfonge [receive]
To live for evermore. Amen.

One last Christmas poem. This is a version in modern spelling of a fourteenth-century poem (the original can be found here) which imagines a dialogue between Mary and the infant Christ. It comes from a manuscript which belonged to a friar called John of Grimestone (the manuscript is now Edinburgh, National Library of Scotland, Advocates Lib. 18.7.21; the first three verses also appear in British Library, Harley 7322). His manuscript, which dates to 1372, is a collection of preaching materials, containing a large amount of English verse and including several tender poems about the baby Christ: 'Lullay little child, rest thee a throwe' is especially lovely, as are 'As I lay upon a night' and this lullaby carol. Although it focuses on Christ's death rather than his birth, Grimestone's 'Love me brought' also has some parallels to this poem.

Long-term readers of this blog will know that I have a soft spot for Middle English lullaby carols, especially ones in which the baby and his mother talk about his future, the suffering both will face before his work on earth is completed. I always feel - perhaps this is excessively literal of me - that these poems are more fitting reading for the weeks after Christmas than for the day itself. They look forward, turning the reader's attention from Christ's birth to his future life, while being careful always to evoke the naturalistic details of their setting in his first newborn days: makeshift cradle, anxious mother, a baby to be fed, wrapped, soothed, sung to. This one is not a lullaby, though the lulling ls of its first line might bring the sound to mind, but the speaker of all except the first verse is Mary; the fact that the verses are all dialogue makes it possible for the reader to take on her voice, to feel and to plead with her. 'Learn to love as I love thee', she, and we, are told.

These poems are sweet and gentle but tinged with sadness, the vulnerability of the child and his mother's fears piercing any sentimentality with a sharp dart of cold realism. Cold is a word which quivers through this poem, and it seems to be the discomfort most troubling baby and mother - not only because they're poor, we might think, and staying in a chilly stable, but perhaps too because it suggests something about the nature of the world this child has come to. In Middle English cold often evokes death, the chill of the clammy grave, and so hints at the death the baby will face for mankind's sake; and it also suggests the coldness of a hard heart, cruelty and lack of love, the very opposite of the warm-hearted tenderness we are supposed to learn from this poem. The months after Christmas are usually colder than December itself, despite the turn of the year at the solstice; there used to be a proverbial saying, 'as the day lengthens, so the cold strengthens'. And so it is here, as the elation of the child's birth turns into contemplation of the sorrow his future will bring. It reminds me of Neale's 'Earth Today Rejoices', a version of a medieval carol which is titled, in some carol-books, 'A January Carol':

Though the cold grows stronger,
Though the world loves night;
Yet the days grow longer,
Christ is born, our Light.

BL Royal 2 A XXII, f. 13v (The 'Westminster Psalter', c.1200)

'My folk, what have I done to thee?

'Popule meus', in a 13th-century manuscript, BL Add. 18031, f. 174

One of the most dramatic and powerful parts of the traditional Good Friday liturgy is the Improperia, the 'Reproaches' in which Christ is imagined speaking from the cross. Recalling numerous key events of Old Testament history, the text contrasts these moments of God's love and protection of his people with the suffering inflicted on him during his Passion. The Improperia are dramatic in every sense, adopting the voice of Christ as he reproaches his people and draws a series of contrasts between past and present: what he has done for mankind, contrasted with the pain they are now causing him to suffer. Here's the Latin text, and here's a recording of it being sung; in Latin and in translation it's been set by various composers, and this version is one familiar to me.

There are several medieval English translations of this text, which form a sub-genre of a very extensive tradition of poems in which Christ addresses mankind from the cross. ('Unkynde man, give heed to me' is a typical example of that genre.) Perhaps the most memorable of these appeals occurs in the middle of the dramatic re-enactment of the Crucifixion in the York Plays. In this play Christ speaks only twice, silent as he is nailed to the cross; but when he is lifted up he speaks a complete twelve-line verse, calling on 'Al men that walkis by waye or strete' to witness his suffering. In the streets of medieval York, where these plays were performed, these words would be spoken directly to the audience and passersby - just as in the Good Friday liturgy Christ's 'reproaches' are intended to transcend their historical context to speak to every congregation, every soul.

The following poetic translation of the Improperia is by William Herebert, and dates to the early 14th century. The poet-preacher John of Grimestone also wrote a version of this text a few decades later.

My folk, what habbe I do thee?
Other in what thyng toened thee?
Gyn nouthe and onswere thou me.

For from Egypte ich ladde thee,
Thou me ledest to rode tree.
My folk, what habbe I do thee?
Other in what thyng toened thee?
Gyn nouthe and onswere thou me.

Thorou wyldernesse ich ladde thee,
And fourty yer bihedde thee,
And aungeles bred ich yaf to thee,
And into reste ich brouhte thee.
My folk, what habbe I do thee?
Other in what thyng toened thee?
Gyn nouthe and onswere thou me.

What more shulde ich haven ydon
That thou ne havest nouth underfon?
My folk, what habbe I do thee?
Other in what thyng toened thee?
Gyn nouthe and onswere thou me.

Ich thee fedde and shrudde thee,
And thou wyth eysyl drinkst to me
And wyth spere styngest me.
My folk, what habbe I do thee?
Other in what thyng toened thee?
Gyn nouthe and onswere thou me.

Ich Egypte beth for thee
And here tem yshlou for thee.
My folk, what habbe I do thee?
Other in what thyng toened thee?
Gyn nouthe and onswere thou me.

Ich delede the see for thee,
And dreynte Pharaon for thee,
And thou to princes sullest me.
My folk, what habbe I do thee?
Other in what thyng toened thee?
Gyn nouthe and onswere thou me.

In bem of cloude ich ladde thee,
And to Pylat thou ledest me.
My folk, what habbe I do thee?
Other in what thyng toened thee?
Gyn nouthe and onswere thou me.

Wyth aungeles mete ich fedde thee,
And thou bufetest and scourgest me.
My folk, what habbe I do thee?
Other in what thyng toened thee?
Gyn nouthe and onswere thou me.

Of the ston ich dronk to thee,
And thou wyth galle drincst to me.
My folk, what habbe I do thee?
Other in what thyng toened thee?
Gyn nouthe and onswere thou me.

Kynges of Chanaan ich for thee bet,
And thou betest myn heved wyth red.
My folk, what habbe I do thee?
Other in what thyng toened thee?
Gyn nouthe and onswere thou me.

Ich gaf thee croune of kynedom,
And thou me gyfst a croune of thorn.
My folk, what habbe I do thee?
Other in what thyng toened thee?
Gyn nouthe and onswere thou me.

Ich muchel worshype dede to the,
And thou me hongest on rode tree.
My folk, what habbe I do thee?
Other in what thyng toened thee?
Gyn nouthe and onswere thou me.

BL Arundel 83, f. 116v (early 14th century)

Here's a (lightly) modernised version of Herebert's poem.

My folk, what have I done to thee?
Or in what thing angered thee?
Speak now, and answer me.

For from Egypt I led thee;
Thou leadest me to rood-tree.
My folk, what have I done to thee?
Or in what thing angered thee?
Speak now, and answer me.

Through the wilderness I led thee,
And forty years I cared for thee,
And angels' bread I gave to thee,
And into rest I brought thee.
My folk, what have I done to thee?
Or in what thing angered thee?
Speak now, and answer me.

What more should I have done
That thou hast not underfon? [received]
My folk, what have I done to thee?
Or in what thing angered thee?
Speak now, and answer me.

I thee fed and clothed thee,
And thou givest vinegar for drink to me
And with spear stingest me.
My folk, what have I done to thee?
Or in what thing angered thee?
Speak now, and answer me.

I Egypt scourged for thee
And their offspring slew for thee.
My folk, what have I done to thee?
Or in what thing angered thee?
Speak now, and answer me.

I divided the sea for thee,
And drowned Pharaoh for thee,
And thou to princes sellest me.
My folk, what have I done to thee?
Or in what thing angered thee?
Speak now, and answer me.

With beam of cloud I led thee,
And to Pilate thou leadest me.
My folk, what have I done to thee?
Or in what thing angered thee?
Speak now, and answer me.

With angels' meat I fed thee,
And thou buffetest and scourgest me.
My folk, what have I done to thee?
Or in what thing angered thee?
Speak now, and answer me.

From the stone I gave drink to thee,
And thou with gall givest drink to me.
My folk, what have I done to thee?
Or in what thing angered thee?
Speak now, and answer me.

Kings of Canaan I for thee beat,
And thou beatest my head with a reed.
My folk, what have I done to thee?
Or in what thing angered thee?
Speak now, and answer me.

I gave thee a crown of kingdom [i.e. kingship],
And thou me givest a crown of thorn.
My folk, what have I done to thee?
Or in what thing angered thee?
Speak now, and answer me.

I great honour gave to thee,
And thou me hangest on rood-tree.
My folk, what have I done to thee?
Or in what thing angered thee?
Speak now, and answer me.

As you can see, Herebert manages to make almost every line of his poem rhyme on either 'me' or 'thee', to highlight the simple but stark contrast which lies at the heart of this text: God's love and man's cruelty. This is a poetic device Herebert has taken from the refrain of the Latin text and carried through into the verses (which don't rhyme in the Latin):

Popule meus, quid feci tibi?
Aut in quo contristavi te?
Responde mihi.

Herebert makes several of his verses rhyme on these same pronouns and the same thematic contrast between the actions of Christ and 'his folk': mihi and tibi, me and thee. Since for Herebert 'I' would also be pronounced more like 'ee', the sound and contrast are there in the repeated refrain too: My folk, what habbe I do thee? Irony is the key to this poem, and it's all in those pronouns.

For another poem by William Herebert for Holy Week, see the wonderful 'What is he, this lordling, which cometh from the fight?'

A Song for St Francis, 2

St Francis (England, 14th or 15th century; BL Royal 16 E XII f.152)

A few years ago I posted a fifteenth-century carol to St Francis of Assisi by John Audelay, 'Saint Francis, to thee I say, / Save thy brethren both night and day'. I'm always interested in vernacular medieval tributes to saints; non-medievalists are often surprised that such things exist at all, let alone that they survive in such large numbers, so it's good to give them a bit of exposure - and in the case of St Francis vernacular songs always seem particularly appropriate. Between John of Grimestone, William Herebert, Audelay and James Ryman, Franciscan friars number among some of the very best writers and collectors of Middle English poems, songs and carols.

So here are two poems addressed to St Francis, from the end of the fifteenth century, which come from the big manuscript collection of poems and carols made by the friar James Ryman. Ryman was based in Canterbury at the first Franciscan house founded in England, which had been established in 1224, two years before St Francis' death. Ryman's collection includes one long poem to St Francis, as well as these two short ones (the text is taken from Julius Zupitza, 'Die Gedichte des Franziskaners Jacob Ryman', Archiv für das Studium der neueren Sprachen und Literaturen 89 (1892), 167-338 (237-8 and 283), which can be read online here).

Hayle, holy fader of the high cuntrey,
Of frere mynours the beawtie and light,
Of a iust man the rightful wey,
Of goode maners the rule moost right:
By thy vertu and goostely myght,
Out of this lyfe when we shull wende,
To blisse lede us, that hath noon ende.

That is:

Hail, holy father of the high country,
Of Friars Minor the beauty and light,
Of a just man the rightful way,
Of good manners [i.e. conduct] the rule most right;
By thy virtue and ghostly might,
Out of this life when we shall wend
To bliss lead us that hath no end.

One of the earliest depictions of St Francis in England, painted c.1250

(Doddington, Kent)

The other piece is a translation of a Latin sequence for St Francis, 'Laetabundus Francisco', and all the Latin phrases here come from that sequence.

Laetabundus Francisco decantet clerus, alleluia.

1. Now gladly shall the clergy singe
To seint Fraunceys, this hevenly thinge,
Alleluia;

2. Whome Criste hath fixte, that lover true,
Hert, hande and foote transfourmed new,
Res miranda.

3. His myende in his flesshe did appere,
And in new wyse he shone full clere,
Sol de stella.

4. This man, the whiche this wyse did floure,
Taught birdes with voice God to honoure
Semper clara.

5. And, as Crist hath taught, poverte
In wille, dede and thought kepe did he
Pari forma.

6. He wolde, nouther in wille nor dede,
That his doughter dere shulde possede
Hec corrupta.

7. Now he joieth above in blisse,
With tokenes newe shynyng he is
Valle nostra.

8. Eyen with light by hym renewed,
A chielde with tunge he hath endewed
Carne sumpta.

9. Sume having speche, sume lyfe agayn,
Heresy by hym is knowen full playne
Esse ceca.

10. Dume, blynde and lame taking comforte
Divers kingdomes knowing reporte
Hec predicta.

11. The sawdons fraude he did despise,
And yet hym hurt hath in no wise
Gens misera.

12. His woundes sheweth gyftes newe
Geven of Criste borne of Marie true,
Puerpera.

Francis preaching to the birds (England, 14th century; BL Yates Thompson 13, f.181v)

Sunday Lyric: Love me brought

Another lyric from John of Grimestone's commonplace book, in which Christ addresses mankind. It's in the same Christ-as-wooer vein as this extract from Ancrene Wisse.


Love me brouthte
And love me wrouthte,
Man, to be thy fere.
Love me fedde
And love me ledde
And love me lettet here.

Love me slou
And love me drou
And love me layde on bere.
Love is my pes,
For love I ches,
Man to buyen dere.

Ne dred thee nought,
I have thee sought
Bothen day an night.
To haven thee,
Well is me,
I have thee wonnen in fight.


Rough translation:

Love me brought
And love me wrought,
Mankind, to be thy fere. [companion]
Love me fed
And love me led
And love now keeps me here.

Love me slew
And love me drew
And love me laid on bier.
Love is my peace,
For love I choose
Mankind to buy so dear.

Now fear thee not,
I have thee sought
Both day and night.
To have thee
Is joy to me;
I won thee in the fight.

Lullay, lullay, little child, softly sleep and fast / In sorrow endeth every love but thine, at the last

This is an exquisitely sad nativity song, a lullaby addressed to the baby Christ, but full of compassion and pain and regret for the suffering that the child will later undergo. It's from the same manuscript as this lullaby and is on roughly the same subject, but this is a much finer treatment (they both come from a book belonging to the friar John Grimestone, who may or may not be the author). Today's lullaby is also very close in style and theme to this poem in the same metre, which is not addressed to Christ but to an ordinary baby - that anonymous poem laments the sorrows of the world and the human condition, while this focuses on the sorrows of Christ. In both cases the central image is of the crying child, innocent and ignorant, who weeps for no reason - and yet has a reason to weep, though he doesn't know it, because of the world he has been born into.

This poem is almost too sad to post at Christmas, really, but today is the feast of the Holy Innocents, whose own sad, strange lullaby still exerts a strong power; and Christmas is not all jollity - as John Donne said, in a sermon he preached on Christmas Day 1626:

The whole life of Christ was a continual passion; others die martyrs, but Christ was born a martyr. He found a Golgotha, where he was crucified, even in Bethlehem, where he was born; for, to his tenderness then, the straws were almost as sharp as the thorns after; and the manger as uneasy at first, as his cross at last. His birth and his death were but one continual act, and his Christmas Day and his Good Friday are but the evening and morning of one and the same day.

This poem perfectly illustrates that idea.


Lullay, lullay, litel child, child, rest thee a throwe,
From heighe hider art thou sent wyth us to wonen lowe;
Poure and litel art thou made, uncouth and unknowe,
Pyne and wo to suffren heer for thyng that nas thyn owe.
Lullay, lullay, litel child, sorwe mythe thou make;
Thou are sent into this world, as thou were forsake.

[Lullay, lullay, little child, rest you a while; from on high you are sent hither to dwell with us below. Poor and little are you made, unrecognised and unknown, to suffer pain and woe for a crime that was not your own. Lullay, lullay, little child, sorrow you might well make; you are sent into this world like one who has been forsaken.]

Lullay, lullay, litel grome, kyng of alle thyng,
What I thenke of thy myschief me listeth wel litel synge;
But caren I may for sorwe, if love were in myn herte,
For swiche peynes as thou shalt dreyen were nevere non so smerte.
Lullay, lullay, litel child, wel myghte thou crie,
For-than thy body is bleik and blak, soon after shal ben drye.

[Lullay, lullay, little boy, king of all things! When I think of your sad situation I hardly feel like singing; but I may lament, for sorrow, if love be in my heart, because such sharp pains as you will suffer have never been known. Lullay, lullay, little child, well might you cry! Your body then will grow pale and white, and then it shall grow dry.]

Child, it is a wepyng dale that thou art comen in;
Thy poure cloutes it proven wel, thy bed made in the bynne;
Cold and hunger thou most thoeln, as thou were geten in synne,
And after deyen on the tree for love of all mankynne.
Lullay, lullay, litel child, no wonder thogh thou care,
Thou art comen amonges hem that thy deeth shullen yare.

[Child, it is a weeping world that you have come into! Your poor rags prove this well, and your bed in the manger. Cold and hunger must you suffer, like one begotten in sin, and afterwards die upon the cross for the love of all mankind. Lullay, lullay, little child, no wonder that you cry; you are come among those who shall cause your death.]

Lullay, lullay, litel child, for sorwe myghte thou grete;
The anguissh that thou suffren shalt shal don the blood to swete;
Naked, bounden shaltow ben, and sithen sore bete,
No thyng free upon thy body of pyne shal ben lete.
Lullay, lullay, litel child, it is al for thy fo,
The harde bond of love-longyng that thee hath bounden so.

[Lullay, lullay, little child, for sorrow you may well cry; the anguish that you shall suffer will make you sweat blood. Naked, bound, you will be, and afterwards sorely beaten; no part of your body shall be left free of pain. Lullay, lullay, little child, it is all for your foe - the hard bond of love-longing that has bound you so.]

Lullay, lullay, litel child, litel child, thyn ore!
It is al for oure owene gilt that thou art peyned sore.
But wolden we yet kynde ben and lyven after thy lore,
And leten synne for thy love, ne keptest thou no more.
Lullay, lullay, litel child, softe sleep and faste,
In sorwe endeth every love but thyn atte laste.

[Lullay, lullay, little child, little child, your mercy! It is all for our guilt that you are sorely suffering. But if we yet acted rightly and lived according to your teaching, and left sin for your love, your suffering would be at an end. Lullay, lullay, little child, softly sleep and fast; in sorrow ends every love but yours, at the last.]

"Sing now, mother," said that child, / "What me shall befall / Hereafter, when I come to age, / As do mothers all."

Virgin and Child from Rochester Cathedral

This fourteenth-century lullaby lyric is a good example of the genre, both in how well-developed the subject is - the baby Christ predicts his own life, from birth to death - and in the naturalistic touches the anonymous poet adds to this dialogue between mother and child - particularly the detail in verse 2 that the mother is hoping to get her child to sleep without having to sing to him, but he feels cheated without a lullaby! I also like the moment in verse 27 where Mary, hearing the child say he will be a king, interrupts with excited delight, almost ambitious for her son (only to be told that he will not be a king of this world). There's a very pretty interplay between the child demanding to hear his mother predict his future ('as all mothers do'), and her amused protest that she knows nothing more of him than what Gabriel told her (going over the familiar details of his birth as mothers, indeed, all do), darkening into something more solemn as he tells her what sorrow she will have to face when he is grown up. The idea of a baby who is childish enough to insist on being sung to, but who can yet predict his own life and death, seems to get right to the heart of the mystery of the Incarnation.

The poem is found in John of Grimestone's commonplace book, like this lullaby and this related text; John must have had a taste for this particular theme, and thank goodness he did, or this poems might have been lost to us! My modernised version of the text comes first, and the Middle English follows.

Lullay, lullay, la, lullay,
My dear mother, lullay.

1. As I lay upon a night
Alone in my longing
Methought I saw a wondrous sight:
A maid a child rocking.

2. The maiden wished without a song
Her child asleep to bring;
The child thought she did him wrong,
And bade his mother sing.

3. "Sing now, mother," said that child,
"What me shall befall
Hereafter, when I come to age,
As do mothers all.

4. "Every mother, truly,
Who can her cradle keep
Is wont to lullen lovingly
And sing her child asleep.

5. "Sweet mother, fair and free,
Since that this is so,
I pray thee that thou lullen me,
And sing somewhat thereto."

6. "Sweet son," said she,
"Whereof should I sing?
I never yet knew more of thee
Than Gabriel's greeting!"

7. "He greeted me well, upon his knee,
And said, 'Hail, Mary,
Full of grace, God is with thee.
Thou shalt bear Messiah.'

8. "I wondered greatly in my thought
For man knew I never none.
'Mary,' he said, 'fear thee not:
Trust God of Heaven alone.'

9. 'The Holy Ghost shall do all this.'
He said it should be done
That I should bear mankind's bliss,
Thee, my sweet son!

10. "He said, 'Thou shalt bear a king
In King David's city,
In all Jacob's nation
King there shall he be.'

11. "He said that Elizabeth
Who barren was before,
A child now conceived hath,
'Therefore believe me the more!'

12. "I answered blithely,
For his words me pleased,
'Lo, God's servant, here am I,
Be it as thou me said.'


13. "There, as he said, I thee bore
On a mid-winter night,
In maidenhead, without sorrow,
By grace of God almighty.

14. "The shepherds that waked in the wold
Heard a wondrous mirth
Of angels there, as they told,
At the time of thy birth.

15. "Sweet son, certainly,
No more can I say;
But if I could I gladly would,
To do all at thy pay." ['everything that would please you']

16. "Mother," said that sweet thing,
"To sing I shall thee lere [teach]
What I shall endure of suffering,
And do while I am here."

17. "When the seven days are done
Right as Abraham wished,
Cut shall I be with a stone
In a very tender place.

18. "When the twelve days are done,
By leading of a star
Three kings shall seek for me then
With gold, incense, and myrrh.

19. "The fortieth day, to fulfill the law,
We shall to the temple go;
There Simeon shall pronounce a saw
And shall tell you of woe.

20. "When I am twelve years of age,
Joseph and thou, mourning,
Shall me find, mother mild,
In the temple teaching.


21. "Til I be thirty at the least
I never shall be from thee severed,
But ever, mother, be at thy behest,
Joseph and thee to serve.

22. "When the thirty years be spent,
I must begin to fulfill
That for which I am hither sent,
Through my Father's will.

23. "John Baptist, of merit most,
Shall me baptise by name;
Then my Father and the Holy Ghost
Shall witness what I am.

24. "I shall be tempted by Satan,
Who fallen is in sin;
Just as he tempted Adam,
But I shall it better withstand.

25. "Disciples I shall gather
And send them out to preach,
The laws of my Father
In all this world to teach.

26. "I shall be so simple
And yet so all-knowing
That a great part of the people
Shall want to make me king."

27. "Sweet son," then said she,
"No sorrow could cause me pain,
If I might live to see the day
When you were made a king!"

28. "No, no, mother," said that sweet,
"For that came I not,
But to be poor, and ease the woe
To which man has been brought.

29. "Therefore when two and thirty years be done
And a little more,
Mother, thou shalt make great moan
And see me die so sore.

30. "The sharp sword of Simeon
Shall pierce into thine heart,
For my great grief and dreadful pain
Sorely thee shall smart.


31. "Shamefully then I shall die
Hanging on the rood,
For man's ransom shall I pay
Mine own heart's blood."

32. "Alas! son," said that maid,
"Since this will be so,
How can I live to see the day
That will bring thee such woe?"

33. "Mother," he said, "take it light,
For I shall live again,
In flesh like yours, through my might,
For else I lived in vain.

34. "To my Father I shall wend
In human flesh to Heaven;
The Holy Ghost I shall thee send,
With his gifts seven.

35. "I shall thee take, when the time is,
To me at the last,
To be with me, mother, in bliss:
All this have I cast. [arranged]

36. "All this world judge I shall,
At the dead's rising;
Sweet mother, this is all
That I will now sing."

37. Certainly this sight I saw,
This song I heard sing,
As I lay this Yule's day,
Alone in my longing.




Here's the poem in Middle English (a conflation of the texts found in this book and this one):


Lullay, lullay, la, lullay,
My dere moder, lullay.

1. As I lay upon a night
Alone in my longing
Me thoughte I saw a wonder sight,
A maiden child rocking.

2. The maiden wolde withouten song
Hire child aslepe bringe;
The childe thoughte she ded him wrong,
And bad his moder singe.

3. "Sing now, moder," seide that child,
"What me shalle befalle
Hereafter whan I cum to eld
So don modres alle.

4. "Ich a moder treuly,
That can hire credel kepe
Is wone to lullen lovely
And singen hire child aslepe.

5. "Swete moder, fair and fre,
Sithen that it is so
I preye thee that thu lulle me,
And sing sumwhat therto."

6. "Swete son," seide she,
"Wherof shud I singe?
Wist I nevere yet more of thee
But Gabrieles gretinge."

7. "He grette me godly on his kne
And seide, 'Heil, Marye,
Full of grace, God is with thee.
Beren thu shalt Messye.'

8. "I wondred michil in my thoghte
For man wold I right none.
'Marye,' he seide, 'drede thee nought:
Lat God of Hevene alone;

9. 'The holy ghost sal don al this.'
He seide withouten wone
That I suld beren mannis blis,
Thee, my swete sone.

10. "He seide, 'Thou salt beren a king
In King Davids see,
In al Jacobs woniing
Ther king suld he be.'

11. "He seyde that Elizabeth
That baraine was before,
A child conceyued hath,
'To me leue thu the more.'

12. "I answerede blethely,
For his word me paiyede,
“Lo! Godis servant, her am I,
Be it as thu me seide."

13. "Ther, as he seide, I thee bare
On midwenter night,
In maidenhed, withouten care,
By grace of God almight.

14. "The shepperdis that wakkeden in the wolde
Herden a wonder mirthe
Of angles ther, as they tolde,
In time of thy birthe.

15. "Swete son, sikirly,
No more can I say;
And, if I coude, fawen wold I
To don all at thy pay."

16. "Moder," seide that swete thing,
"To singen I shall thee lere
What me fallet to suffring
And don whil I am here.

17. "Wanne the seuene daies ben don
Rith as Abraham wasce
Cut sal I ben with a ston
In a wol tendre place.

18. "Wanne the tuelue dayes ben do,
Be leding of a stere
Three kingges me sul seke tho
With gold, ensens, and mirre.

19. "The fourti day, to fille the lawe,
We solen to temple ifere;
Ther simeon sal thee sey a sawe
That changen sal thi chere.

20. "Wan I am tuelue yer of elde,
Joseph and thu, murningge,
Solen me finden, moder milde,
In the temple techingge.

21. "Til I be thretti at the leste
I sal neuere fro the suerue,
But ay, moder, ben at thin heste,
Joseph and the to serue.

22. "Wan the thretti yer ben spent,
I mot beginne to fille
Wer-fore I am hidre sent,
Thoru my fadres wille.

23. "Jon baptist of merite most
Sal baptize me be name;
Than my fader and the holi gost
Solen witnessen wat I ame.

24. "I sal be tempted of Satan,
That fawen is to fone,
The same wise that was Adam,
But I sal betre with-stonde.

25. "Disciples I sal gadere
And senden hem for to preche,
The lawes of my fader,
In al this werld to teche.

26. "I sal ben so simple
And to men so conning
That most partiye of the puple
Sal wiln maken me king."

27. "Suete sone," than seyde sche,
"No sorwe sulde me dere,
Miht I yet that day see
A king that thou were!"

28. "Dowey, moder," seide that suete,
"Therfor cam I nouth,
But for to ben pore and bales bete,
That man was inne brouth.

29. "Therfore wan to and thretti yer ben done
And a litel more,
Moder, thou salt maken michil mon
And seen me deye sore.

30. "The sarpe swerde of simeon
Perse sal thin herte,
For my care of michil won
Sore the sal smerte.

31. "Samfuly for I sal deye
Hangende on the rode,
For mannis ransoun sal I paye
Myn owen herte blode."

32. "Allas! sone," seide that may,
"Sithen that it is so,
Whorto shall I biden that day
To beren thee to this wo?"

33. "Moder," he seide, "tak it lighte,
For liven I shall ayeine,
And in thy kinde, thoru my might,
For elles I wroughte in veine.

34. "To my Fader I shall wende
In mine manhed to Hevene;
The Holy Ghost I shall thee sende,
With hise sondes sevene.

35. "I shall thee taken, whan time is,
To me at the laste,
To ben with me, moder, in blis:
All this, than, have I caste.

36. "All this werld demen I shall,
At the dom rising;
Swete moder, here is all
That I wile now sing."

37. Certeinly this sighte I say,
This song I herde sing,
As I lay this Yolisday,
Alone in my longing.

A visit to Greyfriars, Canterbury (and a Regina Caeli)

Every Easter I seem to find a new corner of medieval Canterbury which had previously escaped my eye, despite the fact that I've known the city all my life; last year it was St Martin's and the ruins of St Augustine's Abbey, and this week I visited the remains of Greyfriars, hidden away in the heart of the city. Greyfriars was the home of the Franciscans in Canterbury, and in fact it was the first Franciscan house in England, founded in 1224 (two years before St Francis' death).

Only one building of Greyfriars survives, surrounded by a garden, and another part of the site is now a public park. The building is a little tricky to find; I knew exactly where it was, but not how to get to it! I was able to see it from a distance, across the sleepy, weed-filled River Stour:

But when I got closer I found myself in the park, and on the other side of an unbroken wall from the place I was seeking:

That wall baffled me, and I couldn't see how to get around it; climbing it seemed a bad idea! I proceeded to take the very longest way round you possibly could, but eventually I wandered down what looked like a possible lane (there was a sign, but it was politely unassuming) and found myself on the other side of the mysterious wall. It was worth the circuitous route - and Canterbury is the place for pilgrimages, after all.

This bare space of ground was once a great religious house, and a complex of sizeable buildings. The first Franciscans who arrived in England, landing at Dover on September 10, 1224, were a party of nine led by Agnellus of Pisa. They begged their way to Canterbury, where they were put up by the monks of the cathedral priory, and they were eventually given a small piece of land near this site, behind the Poor Priests' Hospital in the centre of the city. An account of their coming was written by the friar Thomas of Eccleston a few decades later, and you can read a translation of it here. It's an interesting text, partly because Thomas talks about each individual member of the group, giving their name, origin and a little detail about each one. So, for instance, he says of William of Esseby, a young man of English birth, that he was notably humble and obedient in nature, and when asked if he would wanted to join the party travelling to England, replied that "he did not know". His superior was puzzled at this answer, until William explained: "his will was not his own but the Minister's, and so whatever the Minister willed, he willed."

Such details bring this quiet place alive. This piece of land, between two branches of the river, is known as Binnewith Island (the name means 'in-between bit', at my best guess), and the one surviving building - which was probably the guesthouse - stands right on top of the river.

It's thoroughly enchanting - there's nothing like a medieval ruin on a bright spring day! We've not had much more than a rumour of spring here yet, but the crocuses and daffodils were out along the riverbank, and ducks were dabbling around underneath the arches ('As if the Magician / Sent ducks on a mission / With news from beyond...')

Against an ancient brick wall, the blossom was beginning to 'spring and spray':

The walls are in a rather tumbledown state, but they're all the more picturesque for that.

To return to the story: four friars of the first party continued on to London, and five remained behind to establish a house in Canterbury; they soon had houses in London, Oxford and Northampton as well as here in Kent. One piece of evidence for the early influence of the Franciscans in Kent is the mid-thirteenth-century wall-painting of St Francis in the church at Doddington, some fifteen miles west of Canterbury. I find that wall-painting fascinating - the idea of the friars telling the story of Francis in this little village, and suggesting, or encouraging, or executing the painting of this brand-new saint, dressed in the habit which was still new and unfamiliar to English eyes, gives a vivid glimpse into what it was like to be present at a particular moment in history.

Over the next few centuries the Franciscans in England included such great scholars ('clerks of Oxford', in fact) as William of Ockham, Roger Bacon, and Duns Scotus. In Oxford the Franciscans were based in the area around St Ebbe's, but beyond the odd street-name there's little evidence of their presence there today. The Greyfriars guidebook observed that few Franciscan buildings in England have survived, because they tended to be simple and in the centre of towns - and thus prime building land, once no longer in use. The Canterbury house was surrendered on 13 December 1538, and over time all but the guesthouse disappeared, used at various times as prison and tea-room.

It's only within the past decade that the guesthouse has been restored to use, and it now contains a small exhibition room and a chapel (Greyfriars originally had a large church of its own, but that was destroyed). The chapel, on the upper floor, is tiny and charming.

The number of lit candles burning away before the altar indicated that a healthy number of pilgrims had found their way here before me.

Through the windows I watched children playing with their father in the garden below, no doubt enjoying their Easter holiday.

The towers of Canterbury Cathedral are not far away:

Greyfriars now belongs to Eastbridge Hospital under the care of the Society of St Francis - the love with which it is looked after is obvious in every aspect, including the excellent guidebook (from which I got most of the information in this post). It's open to visitors from Easter until the end of September, Monday-Saturday, 2-4pm, and I recommend a visit.

For a student of medieval literature, one of the best-known Franciscans of Canterbury is James Ryman, carol collector extraordinaire. Ryman is credited as the author or compiler of a manuscript of English carols and songs (now Cambridge University Library MS. Ee 1.12) which contains more than 170 individual texts, of which a list can be found here. The manuscript was written in 1492, and preserves something like a quarter of all surviving fifteenth-century English carols. I post his carols here quite regularly, under this tag, but it would take a long time to get through them all! The carols in the manuscript were all printed in 1892, in a volume accessible in full online here. Whether he wrote or collected them, Ryman produced a valuable set of poems for posterity to enjoy, and I couldn't help hearing his carols in my head as I wandered round Greyfriars. In the spirit of their founder, the English Franciscans included a good few poets and carollers - apart from Ryman, there's Oxford's William Herebert (often quoted on this blog) and John of Grimestone, whose carol collection includes some exquisite lullaby lyrics (here, here and here).

And so let's close with one of Ryman's carols, a really lovely macaronic version of the Marian antiphon for the Easter season, 'Regina caeli'. Because this is late and straightforward Middle English, I've given it in modern spelling, but the original text is here.

Stella celi, micaris clare;
Regina celi, letare.

O queen of bliss, thy son Jesus,
Quem meruisti portare,
God and man is, we believe thus:
Regina celi, letare.

O lady free, the king of grace,
Quem meruisti portare,
Hath ordained thee a joyful place:
Regina celi, letare.

O spouse most bright, thy son alone,
Quem meruisti portare,
Thy place hath dight next to the throne:
Regina celi, letare.

O mother dear of god and man,
Quem meruisti portare,
Thou art more pure than tongue tell can:
Regina celi, letare.

O mother mild, thy son so good,
Quem meruisti portare,
For man so wild died on the rood:
Regina celi, letare.

O meek of mind, thy son also,
Quem meruisti portare,
Hath brought mankind from pain and woe,
Regina celi, letare.

O virgin pure, as he behight, [promised]
Quem meruisti portare,
He rose, full sure, by his great might:
Regina celi, letare.

O empress, that emperor,
Quem meruisti portare,
In our distress he is succour:
Regina celi, letare.

O heavenly star, the prince of peace,
Quem meruisti portare,
Our ghostly war by thee doth cease:
Regina celi, letare.

For us pray thou to Emmanuel,
Quem meruisti portare,
So that we may in heaven dwell:
Regina celi, letare.