Fables: 11 The Fox, The Wolf And The Husbandman

In elderis dayis, as Esope can declair,

Thair wes ane husband quhilk had ane plewch to steir.

His use wes ay in morning to ryse air,

Sa happinnit him in streiking tyme of yeir

Airlie in the morning to follow furth his feir,

Unto the pleuch bot his gadman and he,

His stottis he straucht with Benedicité.

The caller cryit, “How! Haik!” upon hicht,

“Hald draucht, my dowis,” syne broddit thame full sair.

The oxin wes unusit, young, and licht

And for fersnes thay couth the fur forfair.

The husband than woxe angrie as ane hair,

Syne cryit and caist his patill and grit stanis:

“The wolff,” quod he, “mot have you all at anis!”

Bot yit the wolff wes neirar nor he wend,

For in ane busk he lay and Lowrence baith,

In ane rouch rone wes at the furris end

And hard the hecht. Than Lowrence leuch full raith,

“To tak yone bud,” quod he, “it wer na skaith.”

“Weill,” quod the wolff, “I hecht thee be my hand,

Yone carlis word as he wer king sall stand.”

The oxin waxit mair reulie at the last,

Syne efter thay lousit fra that it worthit weill lait.

The husband hamewart with his cattell past,

Than sone the wolff come hirpilland in his gait

Befoir the oxin and schupe to mak debait.

The husband saw him and worthit sumdeill agast

And bakwart with his beistis wald haif past.

The wolff said, “Quhether dryvis thou this pray?

I chalenge it for nane of thame ar thyne!”

The man thairoff wes in ane felloun fray

And soberlie to the wolff answerit syne,

“Schir, be my saull, thir oxin ar all myne:

Thairfoir I studdie quhy ye suld stop me,

Sen that I faltit never to you, trewlie.”

The wolff said, “Carll, gaif thou not me this drift

Airlie quhen thou wes eirrand on yone bank,

And is thair oucht, sayis thou, frear than gift?

This tarying wyll tyne thee all thy thank:

Far better is frelie for to gif ane plank

Nor be compellit on force to gif ane mart.

Fy on the fredome that cummis not with hart!”

“Schir,” quod the husband, “ane man may say in greif

And syne ganesay fra he avise and se.

I hecht to steill, am I thairfoir ane theif?

God forbid, schir, all hechtis suld haldin be.

Gaif I my hand or oblissing,” quod he,

“Or have ye witnes or writ for to schaw?

Schir, reif me not bot go and seik the law.”

“Carll,” quod the wolff, “ane lord and he be leill,

That schrinkis for schame or doutis to be repruvit,

His saw is ay als sickker as his seill.

Fy on the leid that is not leill and lufit.

Thy argument is fals and eik contrufit

For it is said in proverb, “But lawte,

All uther vertewis ar nocht worth ane fle.”

“Schir,” said the husband, “remember of this thing:

Ane leill man is not tane at half ane taill.

I may say and ganesay, I am na king.

Quhair is your witnes that hard I hecht thame haill?”

Than said the wolff, “Thairfoir it sall nocht faill.

Lowrence,” quod he, “cum hidder of that schaw,

And say nathing bot as thow hard and saw.”

Lowrence come lourand for he lufit never licht

And sone appeirit befoir thame in that place.

The man leuch na thing quhen he saw that sicht.

“Lowrence,” quod the wolff, “thow man declair this cace

Quhairof we sall schaw the suith in schort space.

I callit on thee leill witnes for to beir

Quhat hard thou that this man hecht me lang eir.”

“Schir,” said the tod, “I cannot hastelie

Swa sone as now gif sentence finall

Bot wald ye baith submit yow heir to me

To stand at my decreit perpetuall,

To pleis baith I suld preif gif it may fall.”

“Weill,” quod the wolff, “I am content for me.”

The man said, “Swa am I, however it be.”

Than schew thay furth thair allegeance but fabill

And baith proponit thair pley to him compleit.

Quod Lowrence, “Now I am juge amycabill;

Ye sall be sworne to stand at my decreit

Quhether heirefter ye think it soure or sweit.”

The wolf braid furth his fute, the man his hand

And on the toddis taill sworne thay ar to stand.

Than tuke the tod the man furth till ane syde

And said him, “Freind, thou art in blunder brocht.

The wolf will not forgif thee ane oxe hyde

Yit wald myself fane help thee and I mocht

Bot I am laith to hurt my conscience ocht.

Tyne nocht thy querrell in thy awin defence;

This will not throu but grit coist and expence.

“Seis thou not buddis beiris bernis throw

And giftis garris crukit materis hald full evin?

Sumtymis ane hen haldis ane man in ane kow.

All ar not halie that heifis thair handis to hevin.”

“Schir,” said the man, “ye sall have sex or sevin

Richt off the fattest hennis of all the floik.

I compt not all the laif, leif me the coik.”

“I am ane juge!” quod Lowrence than and leuch,

“Thair is na buddis suld beir me by the rycht.

I may tak hennis and caponis weill aneuch

For God is gane to sleip as for this nycht.

Sic small thingis ar not sene into his sicht.

Thir hennis,” quod he, “sall mak thy querrell sure:

With emptie hand na man suld halkis lure.”

Concordit thus, than Lowrence tuke his leif

And to the wolff he went into ane ling,

Syne prevelie he plukkit him be the sleiff,

“Is this in ernist,” quod he, “ye ask sic thing?

Na be my saull, I trow it be in heithing.”

Than said the wolf, “Lowrence, quhy sayis thou sa?

Thow hard the hecht thyself that he couth ma.

“The hecht,” quod he, “yone man maid at the pleuch,

Is that the cause quhy ye the cattell craif?”

Half into heithing said Lowrence than and leuch,

“Schir, be the rude, unroikit now ye raif.

The devill ane stirk tail thairfoir sall ye haif.

Wald I tak it upon my conscience

To do sa pure ane man as yone offence?

“Yit haif I commonnit with the carll,” quod he,

“We ar concordit upon this cunnand:

Quyte off all clamis swa ye will mak him fre,

Ye sall ane cabok have into your hand

That sic ane sall not be in all this land

For it is somer cheis baith fresche and fair,

He sayis it weyis ane stane and sumdeill mair.”

“Is that thy counsell,” quod the wolff, “I do

That yone carll for ane cabok suld be fre?”

“Ye be my saull and I wer sworne yow to,

Ye suld nane uther counsell have for me,

For gang ye to the maist extremitie,

It will not wyn yow worth ane widderit neip.

Schir, trow ye not I have ane saull to keip?”

“Weill,” quod the wolff, “it is aganis my will

That yone carll for ane cabok suld ga quyte.”

“Schir,” quod the tod, “ye tak it in nane evill,

For be my saull, yourself had all the wyte.”

Than said the wolff, “I bid na mair to flyte

Bot I wald se yone cabok of sic pryis.”

“Schir,” said the tod, “he tauld me quhair it lyis.”

Than hand in hand thay held unto ane hill.

The husband till his hous hes tane the way

For he wes fane he schaippit from thair ill

And on his feit woke the dure quhill day.

Now will we turne unto the uther tway.

Throw woddis waist thir freikis on fute can fair

Fra busk to busk quhill neir midnycht and mair.

Lowrence wes ever remembring upon wrinkis

And subtelteis, the wolff for to begyle.

That he had hecht ane caboik he forthinkis

Yit at the last he findis furth ane wyle,

Than at himself softlie couth he smyle.

The wolf sayis, “Lowrence, thou playis bellie blind.

We seik all nycht bot nathing can we find.”

“Schir,” said the tod, “we ar at it almaist;

Soft yow ane lytill and ye sall se it sone.”

Than to ane manure place thay hyit in haist.

The nycht wes lycht, and pennyfull the mone.

Than till ane draw-well thir senyeours past but hone

Quhair that twa bukkettis severall suithlie hang.

As ane come up ane uther doun wald gang.

The schadow off the mone schone in the well.

“Schir,” said Lowrence, “anis ye sall find me leill,

Now se ye not the caboik weill yoursell,

Quhyte as ane neip and round als as ane seill?

He hang it yonder that na man suld it steill.

Schir, traist ye weill, yone caboik ye se hing

Micht be ane present to ony lord or king.”

“Na,” quod the wolff, “mycht I yone caboik haif

On the dry land as I it yonder se,

I wald quitclame the carll of all the laif.

His dart oxin I compt thame not ane fle,

Yone wer mair meit for sic ane man as me.

Lowrence,” quod he, “leip in the bukket sone

And I sall hald the ane quhill thow have done.”

Lowrence gird doun baith sone and subtellie,

The uther baid abufe and held the flaill.

“It is sa mekill,” quod Lowrence, “it maisteris me.

On all my tais it hes not left ane naill.

Ye man mak help upwart and it haill:

Leip in the uther bukket haistelie

And cum sone doun and mak me sum supple.”

Than lychtlie in the bukket lap the loun.

His wecht but weir the uther end gart ryis.

The tod come hailland up, the wolff yeid doun.

Than angerlie the wolff upon him cryis,

“I cummand thus dounwart, quhy thow upwart hyis?”

“Schir,” quod the foxe, “thus fairis it of fortoun:

As ane cummis up, scho quheillis ane uther doun.”

Than to the ground sone yeid the wolff in haist.

The tod lap on land, als blyith as ony bell

And left the wolf in watter to the waist.

Quha haillit him out I wait not, of the well.

Heir endis the text, thair is na mair to tell,

Yyt men may find ane gude moralitie

In this sentence thocht it ane fabill be.

Moralitas

This wolf I likkin to ane wickit man

Quhilk dois the pure oppres in everie place

And pykis at thame all querrellis that he can

Be rigour, reif, and uther wickitnes.

The foxe the feind I call into this cais,

Arctand ilk man to ryn unrychteous rinkis,

Thinkand thairthrow to lok him in his linkis.

The husband may be callit ane godlie man

With quhome the feynd falt findes, as clerkis reids,

Besie to tempt him with all wayis that he can.

The hennis ar warkis that fra ferme faith proceidis.

Quhair sic sproutis spreidis, the evill spreit thair not speids

Bot wendis unto the wickit man agane,

That he hes tint his travell is full unfane.

The wodds waist quhairin wes the wolf wyld

Ar wickit riches, quhilk all men gaipis to get.

Quha traistis in sic trusterie ar oft begyld,

For mammon may be callit the devillis net

Quhilk Sathanas for all sinfull hes set.

With proud plesour quha settis his traist thairin

But speciall grace, lychtlie can not outwin.

The cabok may be callit covetyce

Quhilk blomis braid in mony mannis ee.

Wa worth the well of that wickit vyce

For it is all bot fraud and fantasie

Dryvand ilk man to leip in the buttrie

That dounwart drawis unto the pane off hell.

Christ keip all Christianis from that wickit well.

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: 11 The Fox, The Wolf And The Husbandman

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