Fables-3-The-Mice

Esope myne authour makis mentioun

Of twa myis and thay wer sisteris deir

Of quham the eldest in ane borous toun,

The yungir wynnit uponland weill neir

Richt soliter, quhyle under busk and breir,

Quhilis in the corne in uther mennis skaith

As owtlawis dois and levit on hir waith.

This rurall mous into the wynter tyde

Had hunger, cauld, and tholit grit distres.

The tother mous that in the burgh couth byde,

Was gild brother and made ane fre burges,

Toll-fre alswa but custum mair or les

And fredome had to ga quhairever scho list

Amang the cheis and meill in ark and kist.

Ane tyme quhen scho wes full and unfutesair,

Scho tuke in mynd hir sister uponland

And langit for to heir of hir weilfair

To se quhat lyfe scho led under the wand.

Bairfute, allone, with pykestaf in hir hand

As pure pylgryme scho passit owt off town

To seik hir sister baith oure daill and down.

Throw mony wilsum wayis can scho walk,

Throw mure and mosse, throw bankis, busk, and breir,

Fra fur to fur, cryand fra balk to balk,

“Cum furth to me, my awin sweit sister deir,

Cry peip anis!” With that the mous couth heir

And knew hir voce as kinnismen will do

Be verray kynd and furth scho come hir to.

The hartlie cheir, lord God geve ye had sene

Beis kythit quhen thir sisteris twa war met,

Quhilk that oft syis wes schawin thame betwene!

For quhylis thay leuch and quhylis for joy thay gret,

Quhyle kissit sweit and quhilis in armis plet

And thus thay fure quhill soberit wes their mude,

Syne fute for fute unto the chalmer yude.

As I hard say, it was ane semple wane

Of fog and farne full misterlyk wes maid,

Ane sillie scheill under ane erdfast stane

Of quhilk the entres wes not hie nor braid

And in the samin thay went but mair abaid

Withoutin fyre or candill birnand bricht

For comonly sic pykeris luffis not lycht.

Quhen thay wer lugit thus, thir sely myse,

The youngest sister into hir butterie hyid

And brocht furth nuttis and peis insteid of spyce.

Giff thair wes weilfair, I do it on thame besyde.

The burges mous prompit forth in pryde

And said, “Sister, is this your dayly fude?”

“Quhy not?” quod scho, “Think ye this meis nocht gude?”

“Na be my saull I think it bot ane scorne.”

“Madame,” quod scho, “ye be the mair to blame.

My mother sayd, efter that we wer borne,

That I and ye lay baith within ane wame.

I keip the ryte and custome of my dame

And of my syre, levand in povertie,

For landis hald we nane in propertie.”

“My fair sister,” quod scho, “hald me excusit.

This rude dyat and I can not accord.

To tender meit my stomok is ay usit

For quhy I fair alsweill as ony lord.

Thir wydderit peis and nuttis or thay be bord

Wil brek my teith and mak my wame ful sklender

Quhilk usit wes before to meitis tender.”

“Weil, weil, sister,” quod the rurall mous,

“Geve it yow pleis, sic thing as ye se heir,

Baith meit and dreink, harberie and hous

Sal be your awin will ye remane al yeir.

Ye sall it have wyth blyith and hartlie cheir

And that suld mak the maissis that ar rude

Amang freindis richt tender, sweit, and gude.

“Quhat plesans is in festis delicate

The quhilkis ar gevin with ane glowmand brow?

Ane gentill hart is better recreate

With blyith visage than seith to him ane kow;

Ane modicum is mair for till allow

Swa that Gude Will be kerver at the dais,

Than thrawin vult with mony spycit mais.”

For all this mery exhortatioun

This burges mous had littill will to sing

Bot hevilie scho kest hir browis doun

For all the daynteis that scho culd hir bring,

Yit at the last scho said halff in hething,

“Sister, this victuall and your royall feist

May weill suffice for sic ane rurall beist.

“Lat be this hole and cum unto my place,

I sall yow schaw be trewe experience

My Gude Friday is better nor your Pace,

My dische likingis is worth your haill expence.

I have housis anew of grit defence.

Of cat, na fall, na trap I have na dreid.”

“I grant,” quod scho, and on togidder yeid.

In skugry ay throw rankest gers and corne

Under covert full prevelie couth thay creip.

The eldest was the gyde and went beforne,

The younger to hir wayis tuke gude keip.

On nicht thay ran and on the day can sleip

Quhill in the morning or the laverok sang

Thay fand the town and in blythlie couth gang.

Not fer fra thyne unto ane worthie wane

This burges brocht thame sone quhare thay suld be.

Withowt godspeid thair herberie wes tane

Into ane spence with vittell grit plentie,

Baith cheis and butter upon skelfis hie,

Flesche and fische aneuch, baith fresche and salt,

And sekkis full of grotis, meile, and malt.

Efter quhen thay disposit wer to dyne,

Withowtin grace thay wesche and went to meit,

With all coursis that cukis culd devyne,

Muttoun and beif strikin in tailyeis greit.

Ane lordis fair thus couth thay counterfeit

Except ane thing, thay drank the watter cleir

Insteid of wyne bot yit thay maid gude cheir.

With blyith upcast and merie countenance,

The eldest sister sperit at hir gest

Giff that scho thocht be ressoun difference

Betwix that chalmer and hir sarie nest.

“Ye, dame!” quod scho. “bot how lang will this lest?”

“For evermair, I wait, and langer to.”

“Gif it be swa, ye ar at eis,” quod scho.

Till eik thair cheir ane subcharge furth scho brocht,

Ane plait of grottis and ane disch full of meill.

Thraf caikkis als I trow scho spairit nocht

Aboundantlie about hir for to deill

And mane full fyne scho brocht insteid of geill

And ane quhyte candill owt of ane coffer stall

Insteid of spyce to gust thair mouth withall.

Thus maid thay merie quhill thay micht na mair

And “Haill, Yule, haill!” thay cryit upon hie,

Yit efter joy oftymes cummis cair

And troubill efter grit prosperitie.

Thus as thay sat in all thair jolitie,

The spenser come with keyis in his hand,

Oppinnit the dure, and thame at denner fand.

They taryit not to wesche as I suppose

Bot on to ga quha micht formest win.

The burges had ane hole and in scho gois.

Hir sister had na hole to hyde hir in.

To se that selie mous it wes grit sin,

So desolate and will off all gude reid.

For verray dreid scho fell in swoun neir deid.

Bot as God wald, it fell ane happie cace.

The spenser had na laser for to byde,

Nowther to seik nor serche, to char nor chace,

Bot on he went and left the dure up wyde.

This bald burges his passage weill hes spyde.

Out of hir hole scho come and cryit on hie,

“How, fair sister! Cry peip, quhairever ye be!”

This rurall mous lay flatlingis on the ground

And for the deith scho wes full sair dredand

For till hir hart straik mony wofull stound,

As in ane fever trimbillit fute and hand.

And quhan hir sister in sic ply hir fand,

For verray pietie scho began to greit,

Syne confort hir with wordis hunny sweit.

“Quhy ly ye thus? Ryse up, my sister deir,

Cum to your meit, this perrell is overpast.”

The uther answerit with a hevie cheir,

“I may not eit, sa sair I am agast.

I had lever thir fourty dayis fast

With watter caill and gnaw benis or peis

Than all your feist in this dreid and diseis.”

With fair tretie yit scho gart hir upryse.

To burde thay went and on togidder sat

And scantlie had thay drunkin anis or twyse

Quhen in come Gib Hunter our jolie cat

And bad godspeid. The burges up with that.

And till hir hole scho fled as fyre of flint.

Bawdronis the uther be the bak hes hint.

Fra fute to fute he kest hir to and fra,

Quhylis up, quhylis doun, als tait as ony kid.

Quhylis wald he lat hir rin under the stra,

Quhylis wald he wink and play with hir buk-heid.

Thus to the selie mous grit pane he did

Quhill at the last throw fair fortune and hap

Betwix the dosor and the wall scho crap,

Syne up in haist behind the parraling

So hie scho clam that Gilbert micht not get hir

And be the clukis craftelie can hing

Till he wes gane. Hir cheir wes all the better,

Syne doun scho lap quhen thair wes nane to let hir.

Apon the burges mous loud can scho cry,

“Fairweill, sister, thy feist heir I defy.

“Thy mangerie is mingit all with cair,

Thy guse is gude, thy gansell sour as gall.

The subcharge of thy service is bot sair,

Sa sall thow find heir-efterwart ma fall.

I thank yone courtyne and yone perpall wall

Of my defence now fra yone crewell beist.

Almichtie God keip me fra sic ane feist!

“Wer I into the kith that I come fra

For weill nor wo I suld never cum agane.”

With that scho tuke hir leif and furth can ga

Quhylis throw the corne and quhylis throw the plane.

Quhen scho wes furth and fre, scho wes full fane

And merilie scho markit unto the mure.

I can not tell how eftirwart scho fure

Bot I hard say scho passit to hir den

Als warme as woll suppose it wes not greit,

Full beinly stuffit baith but and ben

Of beinis and nuttis, peis, ry, and quheit.

Quhenever scho list, scho had aneuch to eit

In quyet and eis withoutin ony dreid

Bot to hir sisteris feist na mair scho yeid.

Moralitas

Freindis, heir may ye find, will ye tak heid,

In this fabill ane gude moralitie.

As fitchis myngit ar with nobill seid

Swa intermellit is adversitie

With eirdlie joy swa that na state is frie

Without trubill or sum vexatioun

And namelie thay quhilk clymmis up maist hie

And not content with small possessioun.

Blissed be sempill lyfe withoutin dreid,

Blissed be sober feist in quietie.

Quha hes aneuch, of na mair hes he neid

Thocht it be littill into quantatie.

Grit aboundance and blind prosperitie

Oftymes makis ane evill conclusioun.

The sweitest lyfe thairfoir in this cuntrie

Is sickernes with small possessioun.

O wantoun man that usis for to feid

Thy wambe and makis it a god to be,

Luke to thyself, I warne thee weill ondeid.

The cat cummis and to the mous hes ee.

Quhat is avale than thy feist and royaltie

With dreidfull hart and tribulatioun?

Thairfoir best thing in eird, I say for me,

Is merry hart with small possessioun.

Thy awin fyre, freind, thocht it be bot ane gleid,

It warmis weill and is worth gold to thee.

As Solomon sayis, gif that thow will reid,

“Under the hevin I can not better se

Than ay be blyith and leif in honestie,”

Quhairfoir I may conclude be this ressoun,

Of eirthly joy it beiris maist degree,

Blyithnes in hart with small possessioun.

Robert Henryson

RoBERT HENRYSON, thc charming fabulist, Chaucer's aptest and brightest schoiar, aimost nothing is known. David Laing conjectures him to have been born about 1425, to have been educated at some foreign university, and to have died towards the ciosing years of the fifteenth century. It is certain that in 1462, being then * in Artibus Liceniiatus et in Decretis Bacchaiarius,' he was incorporated of the University of Glasgow; and that he was afterwards schooimaster in Dunferraline, and worked there as a notary-pubiic aiso.

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Sum Practysis of Medecyne The Abbey Walk The Annunciation The Ressoning betwix Aige and Yowth The praise of Age

Fables-3-The-Mice

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