On the Death of K. Edward the First

Alle, that beoth of huerte trewe,
A stounde herkneth to my song
Of duel, that Deth hath diht us newe,
That maketh me syke, ant sorewe among;
Of a knyht, that wes so strong,
Of wham God hath don ys wille;
Me-thuncheth that deth hath don us wrong,
That he so sone shall ligge stille.

Al Englond ahte for te knowe
Of wham that song is, that y synge;
Of Edward kyng, that lith so lowe,
Yent al this world is nome con springe:
Trewest mon of alle thinge,
Ant in werre war ant wys,
For him we ahte oure honden wrynge,
Of Christendome he ber the prys.

Byfore that oure kyng was ded,
He spek ase mon that wes in care,
"Clerkes, knyhtes, barons, he sayde,
"Y charge ou by oure sware,
"That ye to Engelonde be trewe.
"Y deye, y ne may lyven na more;
"Helpeth mi sone, ant crouneth him newe,
"For he is nest to buen y-core.

"Ich biqueth myn herte aryht,
"That hit be write at mi devys,
"Over the see that hue be diht,
"With fourscore knyhtes al of prys,
"In werre that buen war ant wys,
"Ayein the hethene for te fyhte,
"To wynne the croiz that lowe lys,
"Myself y cholde yef that y myhte."

Kyng of Fraunce, thou hevedest 'sinne,'
That thou the counsail woldest fonde,
To latte the wille of 'Edward kyng'
To wende to the holy londe:
That oure kyng hede take on honde
All Engelond to yeme ant wysse,
To wenden in to the holy londe
To wynnen us hevenriche blisse.

The messager to the pope com,
And seyde that our kynge was ded:
Ys oune hond the lettre he nom,
Ywis his herte was full gret:
The Pope him self the lettre redde,
Ant spec a word of gret honour.
"Alas! he seid, is Edward ded?
"Of Christendome he ber the flour."

The Pope to is chaumbre wende,
For dol ne mihte he speke na more;
Ant after cardinals he sende,
That muche couthen of Cristes lore,
Bothe the lasse, ant eke the more,
Bed hem bothe rede ant synge:
Gret deol me myhte se thore,
Mony mon is honde wrynge.

The Pope of Peyters stod at is masse
With ful gret solempnetè,
Ther me con the soule blesse:
"Kyng Edward honoured thou be:
"God lene thi sone come after the,
"Bringe to ende that thou hast bygonne,
"The holy crois y-mad of tre,
"So fain thou woldest hit hav y-wonne.

"Jerusalem, thou hast i-lore
"The flour of al chivalrie
"Now kyng Edward liveth na more:
"Alas! that he yet shulde deye!
"He wolde ha rered up ful heyye
"Oure banners, that bueth broht to grounde;
"Wel longe we mowe clepe and crie
"Er we a such kyng han y-founde."

Nou is Edward of Carnarvan
King of Engelond al aplyht,
God lete him ner be worse man
Then his fader, ne lasse of myht,
To holden is pore men to ryht,
And understonde good counsail,
Al Engelond for to wysse ant dyht;
Of gode knyhtes darh him nout fail

Thah mi tonge were mad of stel,
Ant min herte y-yote of bras,
The godness myht y never telle,
That with kyng Edward was:
Kyng, as thou art cleped conquerour,
In uch bataille thou hadest prys;
God bringe thi soule to the honour,
That ever wes, ant ever ys.