THE GUILDSMEN
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A haberdasher and a carpenter,
A weaver, dyer and tapestrier
Were there also, all clothed similarly
In the plain garb of their fraternity.
And all was fresh and new and well adorned;
Their weapons were not with simple brass scorned
But chased with silver, bright and burnished clean
Their girdles and their pouches too, I wean.
And each of them seemed a proper Burgess
That sat by right in Guildhalls, was my guess.
And each of them, by the wisdom that was shown,
Would have merited an Alderman’s gown.
For goods they had plenty, income also,
And certainly their wives would deem it so;
For that reason were they able to claim
The title of ‘Madame’ before their name.
And go to Vespers, well before the crowd
With mantle borne and praises cried out loud.
THE COOK
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They had a Cook with them for this reason,
He could ‘marrow-bone’ a fowl and season
A tart with finest herbs and galingale.
Expert in beer he knew a London ale.
He could roast all things and boil, seethe or fry,
Make good thick potages and bake a pie.
But unfortunately, it seemed to me,
He had a fearsome ulcer on his knee.
For all that, his sweet blancmange was the best.
THE SAILOR
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A shipman there was, who hailed from the west
For all I knew he came from Dartmouth town,
He rode badly in a long folded gown
Upon a rouncey mare, as best he could
A dagger on a cord hung from his hood,
From his neck, under the arm , hanging down.
Many summers’ suns had turned his face brown.;
And certainly he was a good fellow,
Downing full many draughts of wine, I trow,
When Bordeaux bound, while his importers slept
For conscience was a virtue seldom kept.
When fighting, if he gained the upper hand,
He sent them home, by sea, to every land
But of his sailing craft, he knew his tides,
Treacherous currents and all dangers besides,
His harbours, moon phases and pilotage.
He was unique from Hull to Old Carthage.
Hardy, wise in all things undertaken;
By many a storm had he been shaken.
But he knew all safe havens that were there,
From Gotland Bight through to Cape Finisterre
And every creek in Brittany and Spain
And his ship was christened ‘The Madelaine’.
THE DOCTOR
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Who had had many patients in his care,
Well knowing medicine and surgery
And also well grounded in astronomy.
For he kept many patients from their ills
With horoscopes as well as his own skills.
For he could well define a good portent
When his patient’s stars were in ascendant
He knew the cause of every ill and why,
Whether it be hot or cold, moist or dry.
Where they engendered and what character,
A very accomplised practicioner:
With the cause known and its root and its source,
Without any delay he took recourse,
He always knew with the right apothcary
To supply such drugs as necessary.
By this each made the other rich indeed,
A friendship nurtured by a sick man’s need!
For he well knew his Aesculapius,
Dioscurides and also Rufus,
Old Hippocrates, Hali and Galen,
Scrapion, Rhazes and Avicenen
Averroes, Damscenus, Constsntine
Bernard, Gilbert also Gatesdine.
Always moderate in his diet was he,
For it contains no superfluity,
But with nourishment in its true content
No great reader of the Old Testament!
Overall, In blue and crimson was clad
All lined with taffeta and silk it had;
Yet he was frugal in his own dispence;
And hoarded gold he made from pestilence.
Since gold as a physic is excellent,
He regarded it magnificent.
THE WIFE OF BATH
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A goodly wife was there, from Bath or near
Who, sad to say was deaf in either ear.
Making good cloth was her only talent
Of a class that surpassed Ypres and Ghent.
In her parish no goodwife dared to dwell
Who made quality cloth one half as well:
And should they dare, so full of wroth was she
That she became bereft of charity.
Her kerchiefs were of fabric and fine ground:
I would swear that they weighed all of ten pound,
That each Sunday sat proud upon her head.
Her hose were fine and of a scarlet thread.
Close gartered crowning shoes both soft and new.
Her features strong but fair, ruddy in hue.
Always worthy; a life without falter:
Wedding five husbands before the altar,
Apart from other company in youth,
Of these such, no need to mention in truth.
Three times to Jerusalem had she been;
And many strange landcapes had passed and seen:
She had been to Rome and then to Boulogne,
In Galicia to St. James and Cologne.
And of all of this she had much to say.
But she was also gap-toothed by the way.
On her ambling horse she easily sat,
Well wimpled on her head and with a hat
As broad as is a buckler or a targe;
A rug around her hips that were quite large,
And on her feet she wore spurs, very sharp.
In company she could both laugh and carp.
The wiles of love she knew well for, perchance,
She was very well versed in love’s old dance.
THE PARSON
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A good man there was of religion,
A poor Parson from some country region,
But he was rich in holy thought and work
And was also a learned man, a clerk,
And only Christ’s true gospel would he teach;
And to his parishioners thus would preach.
He was benign and truly diligent,
And, in adversity, most patient,
As was often proven always so blithe.
Always loath to clamour for his due tithe,
And would rather yield if there was a doubt
And give to poor parishioners without
Part of his offerings, his own sustenance.
He himself content with small elegance.
Wide was his parish, dwellings asunder,
But never, ever, come rain or thunder
Failing to visit in sickness or strife
All, whatever their status was in life.
Plodding along on foot, with staff and stock.
This noble example he gave his flock,
Firstly he wrought his own life, then he taught,
From the gospel whose words he truly caught.
And to this truth he added there unto,
If gold should rust, then what will iron do?
For if a priest be foul, one whom you trust,
Small wonder that a layman turns to lust;
And shame it would be, a priest’s shame so deep,
To be a filthy shepherd with clean sheep.
A priest should, by example, seek to give
By his cleanliness, how his flock should live.
He never left his benefice for hire
Leaving his parishioners in the mire
Running to old St. Pauls in London Town
Seeking a chantry for souls, of his own,
Nor join an Order and remain aloof;
But dwelt at home and herein is the proof
No wolf sought his fold, he was so wary;
He was shepherd, not a mercenary.
And though himself holy and virtuous,
To sinners was never dispiteous,
Haughty in tone, scornful or too divine,
In his penances discreet and benign.
To lead folk to Heaven in full fairness,
By good example; that was his business.
But if a person was so obstinate,
Whatever status, high or low estate,
Those he sharply reproved without regret.
A better priest than he I’ve never met.
He waited on no pomp or reverence,
Nor showed himself too strict a conscience.
But he taught Christ’s lore as Christ himself taught
The Twelve; by example, in deed and thought.
THE PLOUGHMAN
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With him his brother a ploughman, most strong,
Who, in his living, scattered loads of dung;
A true labourer, a good soul was he
Who lived at peace and perfect charity.
He loved God the best with an wholesome heart
At all times, whether they were sweet or tart,
And next he loved his neighbour as himself.
He would thresh and dyke and dig without pelf
In Christ’s holy name for any poor wight
At once if it should lay within his might.
He paid all of his tithes full fair and well,
Both in labour and by goods he could sell.
Dressed in a tabard he rode on a mare.
There was also a Reeve and Miller there
A Summoner and a Pardoner too,
A Manciple, myself – to end the queue!
THE MILLER
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The Miller was a stout churl, be it known,
A very large man, big in brawn and bone.
And this he proved, he always overcame
Every opponent in the wrestling game.
Short at shoulder, broad, a thick sturdy knave;
There was no door from hinges could not stave,
Or break completely, using just his head.
Like a sow or a fox, his beard was red,
And very broad it was as though a spade.
On the bridge of his nose, Nature had made
A wart on which there was a a hairy tuft,
Bristling red as an old sow’s ears are stuffed;
And both of his nostrils were black and wide.
He bore a sword and buckler by his side.
His mouth was as big as a furnace door.
He was a jongleur and great raconteur,
Mostly of sin and harlots bawdy tales
And he would charge twice and misweigh corn bales,
For sure he had a thumb of gold, that’s true.
He wore a white coat and a hood of blue,
And as he played the bagpipes on his own,
He brought us joyfully out of town.
THE MANCIPLE
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A Manciple, from Inns of Court was there,
Well born, of whom buyers should be aware
For he was wise in buying victual;
Whether he paid cash or paid casual
On account, he was so careful in choice
That he was well set and joyful of voice.
Now is that not a sign of God’s own grace
That such a simple person should outpace
The wisdom of a heap of learned men?
For of wise masters he had three times ten,
That were so learned in law, all street-wise
Dozens of which his temple did comprise,
Worthy to be stewards of rent and land
For any lord that dwelt within England,
And let them live in comfort, understood
Honoured, debtless (unless his head was wood),
Or live frugally if he should desire;
Such men could administer any shire
If any such circumstance should befall;
Yet this onme Manciple surpassed them all.
THE REEVE
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The reeve, a slender yet choleric man,
Whose beard was shaven close as any can;
His hair, down to his ears, was closely lopped,
Its top, like a priest, was tonsured and cropped.
His legs were very long and very lean
Like a staff for no calves were to be seen.
He could manage both granary and stores;
And was never caught out by auditors.
He could foretell, both in drought and in rain
The exact yield from both seed and from grain.
His lord’s herds of sheep, cattle and dairy,
All his swine, horses, stores and his poultry
Was wholly within this one stewards sight,
Having power of attorney as his right,
Since his young lord was only twenty years.
Yet no man ever found him in arrears.
There was no bailiff, shepherd who would cheat,
For he knew every method of deceit:
All were afraid of him as a lion’s teeth.
His dwelling was a good one, on a heath;
With green trees shadowing a pleasant place.
In purchasing he could his lord outpace.
For he was also rich in his own right:
And he could well please his lord, day and night
By giving or lending him his own goods,
And, in thanks, received many coats and hoods.
In youth he had apprenticed a good trade,
An expert carpenter in all he made.
This Reeve rode a stout farrm steed at a trot
All dapple grey and which he had named Scot,
A long surcoat of blue he proudly wore,
And by his side a rusty sword he bore,
From Norfolk shire this Reeve of whom I tell,
From close upon a town called Badeswell.
Enveloped like a friar he was all day,
And always rode behind us all the way.
THE SUMMONER
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With us was a Summoner in that place,
Who had a fiery-red cherubic face,
For he had eczema, his eyes narrow
And he was lecherous, like a sparrow,
With black and scabby brows and a scant beard.
And withal a face that all children feared.
No Mercury, Sulphur or Lye water,
Borax, white Lead, even oil of Tartar
Nor any ointment that could cleanse or bite
Into his boils so scrofulous and white,
Or of the blotches sitting on his cheeks.
But then, he loved garlic, onions and leeks,
And drinking such strong wine as red as blood;
Then he would cry and shout, loud as he could.
But when he had drunk his fill of such wine,
Then he would speak Latin only, line by line,
Phrases he had learned by rote, two or three,
Having often heard it to some degree,
By people he met every working day;
And as you well know even a small Jay
Can mimic words as well as can the Pope.
But from him, more Latin there was no hope,
For having used it up he dared not try;
Just ‘Questo quid juris’ would always cry.
He was a gentle rascal of a kind,
A better comrade you would never find.
Indeed, he would suffer, for a quart of wine
A companion to have his concubine
For a year, excusing all payment in full;
On the quiet a trick he could always pull
For if he came across some simple prey,
He would conjure up a devious way
For him to avoid the Archdeacon’s curse,
Unless the man was in love with his purse;
Then, in his purse, his punishment should lie.
Purse–love is the Archdeacon’s hell he’d cry.
But I well know he lied in what he said;
For such cursing is a thing all men dread,
For curse can kill; absolution can save,
Significavits lead just to the grave.
In dalliance and at his own sweet ease
He held the young girls of his diocese,
He knew their secrets and counselled them all.
On his head he wore a garland quite tall
As tall as a vine on an ale-house stake
And he had made a buckler out of cake.
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