Fables: 8 The Lion and the Mouse

Prologue

In middis of June that joly sweit seasoun

Quhen that fair Phebus with his bemis bricht

Had dryit up the dew fra daill and doun

And all the land maid with his lemis licht,

In ane mornyng betwix midday and nicht

I rais and put all sleuth and sleip asyde

And to ane wod I went allone but gyde.

Sweit wes the smell of flouris quhyte and reid,

The noyes of birdis richt delitious,

The bewis braid blomit abone my heid,

The ground growand with gresis gratious.

Of all plesance that place wes plenteous,

With sweit odouris and birdis harmony,

The morning myld, my mirth wes mair forthy.

The rosis reid arrayit rone and ryce,

The prymeros and the purpour viola.

To heir it wes ane poynt of paradice

Sic mirth the mavis and the merle couth ma.

The blossummis blythe brak upon bank and bra,

The smell of herbis and the fowlis cry

Contending quha suld have the victory.

Me to conserve than fra the sonis heit,

Under the schaddow of ane hawthorne grene

I lenit doun amang the flouris sweit

Syne maid a cors and closit baith my ene.

On sleip I fell amang thir bewis bene

And in my dreme methocht come throw the schaw

The fairest man that ever befoir I saw.

His gowne wes of ane claith als quhyte as milk,

His chymmeris wes of chambelate purpour broun,

His hude of scarlet bordowrit weill with silk

On hekillit wyis untill his girdill doun,

His bonat round and of the auld fassoun,

His beird wes quhyte, his ene wes grit and gray

With lokker hair quhilk over his schulderis lay.

Ane roll of paper in his hand he bair,

Ane swannis pen stikand under his eir,

Ane inkhorne with ane prettie gilt pennair,

Ane bag of silk all at his belt he weir,

Thus wes he gudelie grathit in his geir.

Of stature large and with ane feirfull face,

Evin quhair I lay he come ane sturdie pace

And said, “God speid, my sone,” and I wes fane

Of that couth word and of his cumpany.

With reverence I salusit him agane,

“Welcome, father,” and he sat doun me by.

“Displeis yow not my gude maister thocht I

Demand your birth, your facultye, and name,

Quhy ye come heir or quhair ye dwell at hame.”

“My sone,” said he, “I am of gentill blude.

My natall land is Rome withoutin nay

And in that towne first to the sculis I yude,

In civile law studyit full mony ane day

And now my winning is in hevin for ay.

Esope I hecht. My writing and my werk

Is couth and kend to mony cunning clerk.”

“O maister Esope, poet lawriate,

God wait ye ar full deir welcum to me.

Ar ye not he that all thir fabillis wrate

Quhilk in effect suppois thay fenyeit be,

Ar full of prudence and moralitie?”

“Fair sone,” said he, “I am the samin man.”

God wait gif that my hert wes merie than.

I said, “Esope, my maister venerabill,

I yow beseik hartlie for cheritie

Ye wald dedene to tell ane prettie fabill

Concludand with ane gude moralitie.”

Schaikand his heid, he said, “My sone, lat be

For quhat is it worth to tell ane fenyeit taill

Quhen haly preiching may nathing availl?

“Now in this warld me think richt few or nane

To Goddis word that hes devotioun.

The eir is deif, the hart is hard as stane,

Now oppin sin without correctioun,

The e inclynand to the eirth ay doun,

Sa roustit is the warld with canker blak

That now my taillis may lytill succour mak.”

“Yit, gentill schir,” said I, “For my requeist,

Not to displeis your fatherheid I pray,

Under the figure off ane brutall beist

Ane morall fabill ye wald denye to say.

Quha wait nor I may leir and beir away

Sumthing thairby heirefter may availl?’

“I grant,” quod he, and thus begouth ane taill.

The Fable

Ane lyoun, at his pray wery foirrun,

To recreat his limmis and to rest,

Beikand his breist and belly at the sun,

Under ane tre lay in the fair forest.

Swa come ane trip of myis out off thair nest

Richt tait and trig, all dansand in ane gyis

And over the lyoun lansit twyis or thryis.

He lay so still, the myis wes not effeird

Bot to and fro out over him tuke thair trace.

Sum tirlit at the campis of his beird,

Sum spairit not to claw him on the face.

Merie and glaid thus dansit thay ane space

Till at the last the nobill lyoun woke

And with his pow the maister mous he tuke.

Scho gave ane cry and all the laif, agast,

Thair dansing left and hid thame sone alquhair.

Scho that wes tane cryit and weipit fast

And said allace oftymes that scho come thair.

“Now am I tane ane wofull presonair

And for my gilt traistis incontinent

Of lyfe and deith to thoill the jugement.”

Than spak the lyoun to that cairfull mous,

“Thow cative wretche and vile unworthie thing,

Over malapart and eik presumpteous

Thow wes to mak out over me thy tripping.

Knew thow not weill I wes baith lord and king

Of beistis all?” “Yes,” quod the mous, “I knaw,

Bot I misknew because ye lay so law.

“Lord, I beseik thy kinglie royaltie

Heir quhat I say and tak in patience.

Considder first my simple povertie

And syne thy mychtie hie magnyfycence.

Se als how thingis done of neglygence,

Nouther of malice nor of prodissioun,

Erer suld have grace and remissioun.

“We wer repleit and had grit aboundance

Off alkin thingis sic as to us effeird.

The sweit sesoun provokit us to dance

And mak sic mirth as nature to us leird.

Ye lay so still and law upon the eird

That be my saull we weind ye had bene deid,

Elles wald we not have dancit over your heid.”

“Thy fals excuse,” the lyoun said agane,

“Sall not availl ane myte, I underta.

I put the cace I had bene deid or slane

And syne my skyn bene stoppit full of stra,

Thocht thow had found my figure lyand swa,

Because it bare the prent of my persoun,

Thow suld for feir on kneis have fallin doun.

“For thy trespas thow can mak na defence

My nobill persoun thus to vilipend.

Of thy feiris nor thy awin negligence

For to excuse thow can na cause pretend.

Thairfoir thow suffer sall ane schamefull end

And deith sic as to tressoun is decreit,

Onto the gallous harlit be the feit.”

“A, mercie, lord, at thy gentrice I ase

As thow art king of beistis coronate,

Sober thy wraith and let thi yre overpas

And mak thy mynd to mercy inclynate.

I grant offence is done to thyne estate,

Quhairfoir I worthie am to suffer deid

Bot gif thy kinglie mercie reik remeid.

“In everie juge mercy and reuth suld be

As assessouris and collaterall.

Without mercie, justice is crueltie

As said is in the lawis spirituall.

Quhen rigour sittis in the tribunall,

The equitie of law quha may sustene?

Richt few or nane but mercie gang betwene.

“Alswa ye knaw the honour triumphall

Of all victour upon the strenth dependis

Of his conqueist quhilk manlie in battell

Throw jeopardie of weir lang defendis.

Quhat pryce or loving quhen the battell endis

Is said off him that overcummis ane man

Him to defend quhilk nouther may nor can?

“Ane thowsand myis to kill and eik devoir

Is lytill manheid to ane strang lyoun,

Full lytill worschip have ye wyn thairfoir,

To quhais strenth is na comparisoun.

It will degraid sum part of your renoun

To sla ane mous quhilk may mak na defence

Bot askand mercie at your excellence.

“Also it semis not your celsitude

Quhilk usis daylie meittis delitious

To fyle your teith or lippis with my blude

Quhilk to your stomok is contagious.

Unhailsum meit is of ane sarie mous

And that namelie untill ane strang lyoun

Wont till be fed with gentill vennesoun.

“My lyfe is lytill worth, my deith is les,

Yit and I leif I may peradventure

Supplie your hienes beand in distres

For oft is sene ane man of small stature

Reskewit hes ane lord of hie honour

Keipit that wes in poynt to be overthrawin

Throw misfortoun. Sic cace may be your awin.”

Quhen this wes said, the lyoun his langage

Paissit and thocht according to ressoun

And gart mercie his cruell ire asswage

And to the mous grantit remissioun,

Oppinnit his pow and scho on kneis fell doun

And baith hir handis unto the hevin upheild,

Cryand, “Almichty God mot yow foryeild!”

Quhen scho wes gone, the lyoun held to hunt

For he had nocht bot levit on his pray

And slew baith tayme and wyld as he wes wont

And in the cuntrie maid ane grit deray

Till at the last the pepill fand the way

This cruell lyoun how that thay mycht tak.

Of hempyn cordis strang nettis couth thay mak

And in ane rod quhair he wes wont to ryn

With raipis rude fra tre to tre it band,

Syne kest ane range on raw the wod within,

With hornis blast and kennettis fast calland.

The lyoun fled and throw the ron rynnand

Fell in the net and hankit fute and heid.

For all his strenth he couth mak na remeid.

Welterand about with hiddeous rummissing,

Quhyle to, quhyle fra, quhill he mycht succour get

Bot all in vane, it vailyeit him nathing.

The mair he flang, the faster wes he knet.

The raipis rude wes sa about him plet

On everilk syde that succour saw he nane

Bot styll lyand, thus murnand maid his mane.

“O lamit lyoun liggand heir sa law,

Quhair is the mycht of thy magnyfycence

Of quhome all brutall beist in eird stude aw

And dred to luke upon thy excellence?

But hoip or help, but succour or defence,

In bandis strang heir man I ly allace

Till I be slane, I se nane uther grace.

“Thair is na wy that will my harmis wreik

Nor creature do confort to my croun.

Quha sall me bute, quha sall my bandis breik,

Quha sall me put fra pane off this presoun?”

Be he had maid this lamentatioun,

Throw aventure the lytill mous come neir

And of the lyoun hard the pietuous beir.

And suddanlie it come intill hir mynd

That it suld be the lyoun did hir grace

And said, “Now wer I fals and richt unkynd

Bot gif I quit sum part thy gentilnes

Thow did to me,” and on with that scho gais

To hir fellowis and on thame fast can cry,

“Cum help, cum help!” and thay come all in hy.

“Lo,” quod the mous, “this is the same lyoun

That grantit grace to me quhen I wes tane

And now is fast heir bundin in presoun,

Brekand his hart with sair murning and mane.

Bot we him help, of souccour wait he nane.

Cum help to quyte ane gude turne for ane uther,

Go lous him sone”; and thay said, “Ye, gude brother.”

Thay tuke na knyfe, thair teith wes scharpe aneuch.

To se that sicht forsuith it wes grit wounder

How that thay ran amang the rapis tewch,

Befoir, behind, sum yeid abone, sum under

And schuir the raipis of the mastis in schunder,

Syne bad him ryse and he start up anone

And thankit thame, syne on his way is gone.

Now is the lyoun fre of all danger,

Lows and delyverit to his libertie

Be lytill beistis of ane small power

As ye have hard because he had pietie.”

Quod I, “Maister, is thair ane moralitie

In this fabill?” “Yea, sone,” he said, “richt gude.”

“I pray yow, schir,” quod I, “Ye wald conclude.”

Moralitas

“As I suppois, this mychtie gay lyoun

May signifie ane prince or empriour,

Ane potestate or yit ane king with croun

Quhilk suld be walkrife gyde and governour

Of his pepill and takis na labour

To reule and steir the land and justice keip,

Bot lyis still in lustis, sleuth, and sleip.

The fair forest with levis lowne and le,

With foulis sang and flouris ferlie sweit

Is bot the warld and his prosperitie

As fals plesance myngit with cair repleit.

Richt as the rois with froist and wynter weit

Faidis, swa dois the warld and thame desavis

Quhilk in thair lustis maist confidence havis.

Thir lytill myis ar bot the commountie,

Wantoun, unwyse without correctioun.

Thair lordis and princis quhen that thay se

Of justice mak nane executioun,

Thay dreid nathing to mak rebellioun

And disobey for quhy thay stand nane aw

That garris thame thair soveranis misknaw.

Be this fabill, ye lordis of prudence

May considder the vertew of pietie

And to remit sumtyme ane grit offence

And mitigate with mercy crueltie.

Oftymis is sene ane man of small degree

Hes quit ane kinbute baith for gude and ill

As lord hes done rigour or grace him till.

Quha wait how sone ane lord of grit renoun

Rolland in wardlie lust and vane plesance

May be overthrawin, destroyit, and put doun

Throw fals fortoun quhilk of all variance

Is haill maistres and leidar of the dance

Till injust men and blindis thame so soir

That thay na perrell can provyde befoir?

Thir rurall men that stentit hes the net

In quhilk the lyoun suddandlie wes tane

Waittit alway amendis for to get.

For hurt, men wrytis in the marbill stane.

Mair till expone as now I lett allane

Bot king and lord may weill wit quhat I mene.

Figure heirof oftymis hes bene sene.”

Quhen this wes said, quod Esope, “My fair child,

Persuaid the kirkmen ythandly to pray

That tressoun of this cuntrie be exyld

And justice regne and lordis keip thair fay

Unto thair soverane lord baith nycht and day,”

And with that word he vanist and I woke,

Syne throw the schaw my journey hamewart tuke.

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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Fables: 8 The Lion and the Mouse

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