The Cock and the Fox

Thocht brutal bestis be irrational,
That is to say, lakking discretioun,
Yit ilk ane in thair kyndis natural
Hes mony diverss inclinatioun,
The bair bustouss, the wolf, the wyld lyoun,
The fox fenzeit, craftye, and cautelouse,
The dog to berk in nycht and keip the house.

Sa different thay ar in propirteis,
Unknawin unto man, and infynite
In kynd, haifand sa fele diversiteis,
My connying it excedis for to dyte;
Forthy as now my purpois is to wryte
A case I fand, quhilk fell this hinder yere,
Betwix a Fox and gentill Chanteclere.

A Wedow dwelt intill a drope thai dais,
Quhilk wan hir fude with spynning on hir rok;
And na mair guidis had, as the fable sais,
Except of hennis scho had a lytill flok;
And thame to kepe she had a joly Cok,
Rycht curageouss, unto this Wedow ay
Devidand nycht, crawand befoir the day.

A lytill fra that foirsaid Wedois house,
A thorny schaw thair was of grit defence,
Quhairin a Fox, craftye and cautelouse,
Made his repair and daylie residence:
Quhilk to this Wedow did grete violence,
In piking of hir pultry day and nycht,
And be no mene revengit on hym scho mycht.

This wily Tod, quhen that the lark coud sing
Full sare hungrye unto the town him drest,
Quhair chanteclere into the gray dawing,
Wery of nycht, was flowin fra his nest.
Lourence this saw, and in his mynd he kest
The jupertie, the wayis, and the wile,
Be quhat menis he mycht this Cok begile.

Dissimuland in countenance and chere,
On knees fell, and smyland thus he said:
" Gude morne, my Maister, gentill Chanteclere! n
With that the Cok stert backward in a braid:
" Schir, be my saull, ye need nocht be affraid,
Nor yit for me to drede, nor flee abak;
I come bot here yow service for to mak.

" Wald I nocht serve you, Schir, I wer to blame,
As I have done to youre progenitouris;
Your fader oft fulfillit hes my wame,
And send me mete fra middingis to the muris;
At his ending I did my besy curis
To hald his hede and gife him drinkis warme;
Syne at the last, that swete swelt in my arme."

"Knew thow my fader?" quod the Cok, and leuch.
" Ya, my fair sone, forsuth I held his hede,
Quhen that he swelt under a birkyn beuch;
Syne said his dirige, quhen he was dede.
Betwix us twa how suld thair be a fede?
Quhom suld ye trest bot me, your servitour,
Quhilk to your fader did sa grite honour?

" Quhen I behald your fetheris fair and gent,
Your breste, your beke, your hekill, and your came,
Schir, be my saule and the Blissit Sacrament,
My hert warmys; me think, I am at hame,
Yow for to serve I wald crepe on my wame,
In frost and snaw, in wederis wan and wete,
And lay my lyart lokkis under your fete."

This feynit Fox, false and dissimulate,
Maid to the Cok a cavillatioun:
" Me think yow changit and degenerate
Fra your fader and his conditioun;
Of crafty era wing he mycht bere the crown,
For he wald on his tais stand and craw;
This is no lee; I stude besyde and saw."

With that the Cok, upoun his tais he,
Kist up his beke, and sang with all his mycht.
Quod Lourence thane, "Now, Schir, sa mot I thee,
Ye ar your faderis sone and air uprycht,
Bot of his cunnyng yit ye want a slight."
" Quhat? " quod the Cok — " He wald, and haif na dout,
Bayth wink and craw and turne him thryis about."

Thus inflate with the wind of fals vaine gloir,
Quhilk monye puttis unto confusioun,
Trestand to win a grit worschip thairfore,
Unwarlye winkand, walkit up and doun,
And syne to chant and craw he made him boun.
And suddanlie, or he had sung ane note,
The Fox was war and hynt him be the throte.

Syne to the schaw, but tarye, with him hyit,
Of countermaund haifand bot lytill dout.
With that Sprowtok, Partok, and Coppok cryit:
The Wedow hard, and with a cry cum out.
Seand the caise, scho sichit and gaif a schout:
" How, Murthour, Reylock!" with a hideous beir,
" Alace! have I now lost guid Chanteclere! "

As scho war wod, with mony yell and cry,
Ryvand hir hair, upon hir breist can bete,
Syne paill of hew, half in an extasye,
Fel doun for cair, in swoning and in swete.
With that the sillye hennis left thair mete,
And quhill this wyfe was lyand thus in swoun,
Fell of that caise in disputatioun.

" Alace! " quod Partok, makand sair murning,
With teiris grete attour hir chekis fell,
" Yone was our drourye, and our dayis darling,
Our nychtingale, and als our horlage bell,
Our walkryif weche, us for to warne and tell
Quhen that Aurora, with hir curchis gray,
Put up hir hede betwix the nycht and day.

" Quha sail oure lemmane be? quha sail us leid?
Quhen we are sad, quha sail unto us sing?
With his sweit bill he wald brek us the breid:
In all this warld was thar na kyndar thing;
In paramouris he wald do us plesing
At his power, as nature list him gyffe;
Now eftir him, alace! how sail we lyve? "

Than Sprowtok spak: "Seiss, sister, of your sorrow,
Ye be to mad for him; sic murning mais;
We sail fair weill; I find, Sanct John to borrow,
The proverb sayis, 'As guid luif cumis as gais:'
I will put on my hellye-dayis clais,
And mak me fresche aganis this jolye May,
Syne chant this sang, ' Was nevir wedow so gay! '

" He was angrye and held us in grete aw,
And woundit with the speir of jelosye;
Of chaumer glew, Partok, how weill ye knaw,
Wastit he was, of nature cald and drye,
Sen he is gone, thairfore, sister, say I,
Be blyith in bale, for that is best remeid:
Lat quik to quik, and deid go to the deid."

Than Partok spak with feynit fayth befoir,
" In lust but luif he sette all his delyte,
Syster, ye wait of sic as him a scoir
May nocht suffise to slak our appetyte.
I hecht yow be my hand, sen he is quyte,
Within a wolk, for schame, and I durst speik,
To gett a berne could better claw our breke."

Than Coppok lyk a curate spak full crouse.
" Yone was ane verrye veangeance fra the hevin;
He was sa loveous and sa licherouse;
He had," quod scho, "of sissocks mo than sevin;
Bot rychteous God haldand the ballandis evin,
Smytis richt sair, thocht He be patient,
Adulteraris that list thame nocht repent.

" Prydefull lie was, and joyit of his syn,
And comptit nocht of Goddis favour nor feid,
Bot traistit ay to rax and sa furth rin,
Till at the last his synnis could him leid
To schamefull end, and to yone suddane deid; I
Thairfore I wait it was the hand of God
That causit him be worrit with the tod."

Quhen this was said, the Wedow fra hir swoun
Stert up in haste, and on hir kennattis cryid,
" How! Birkye, Burrye, Bell, Balsye, Brown,
Rypeschaw, Ryn-weill, Courtess, Cutt, and Clyid,
Togidder all but grunching furth ye glyid;
Reskew my nobill Cok or he be slane,
Or ellis to me se ye cum nevir agane."

With that, but bade, thay breddit our the bent;
As fyre off flynt thay our the feildis flaw,
Wichtly, I wis, throw woddis and watteris went,
And seissit nocht Sir Lawrence till they saw.
Bot when he saw the raches cum on raw,
Unto the Cok he said in mynd, " God sen
That I and thow were liftit in my den."

Than spak the Cok, with sum guid spreit inspyrit,
" Do my counsale, and I sail warrand the;
Hungrie thow art, and for grit travell tyrit,
Rycht fant of force and may nocht forder flee:
Swyith turne agane, and say, that I and ye
Friendis ar maid, and fallowis for a yeir;
Than will thai stynt, I stand for it, and nocht steir."

The Fox, thocht he was fals and frivelous,
And had fraudis his quarrellis to defend,"
Dissavit was be menis richt marvellous;
For falsheid failyeis at the latter end.
He turnit about and cryit as he was kend;
With that the Cok brade up unto a buche.
Now reid ye sail quhair at Sir Lowrence luche.

Begylit thus, the Tod under a tree
On knees fell, and said: " Gude Chanteclere,
Cum doun agane, and I, but mete or fee,
Sal be your man and servand for ane yeir.'"
"Nay, murther theif and rivere, stand on reir;
My bludy hekkil and my nek so bla
Hes partit love for evir between us twa.

" I was unwyis that winkit at thy will,
Quhairthrow allmaist I lossit had my heid."
"I was mair fule," quod he, "coud nocht be still,
But spak to put ray prayer unto pleid."
"Fair on, fals theif, God keip me fra thy feid!"
With that the Cok our feildis tuke the flicht;
In at the Wedowis lewar coud he licht.

Moralitas

Now, worthy folk, suppois this be a fable,
And ourhelit with typis figurall,
Yit may ye find a sentence rycht greabill,
Under the fenyeit termys textuall.
Till oure purpois this Cok weill may we call
A nyce, proud man, void and vaneglorious
Of kyn or gude, quhilk is presumptuous.

Fy! pompous pryde, thow art rycht poysonable,
Quha favouris the of force may have a fall.
Thy strenth is nocht, thy stule standis unstable,
Tak witness of the feindis infernall,
Quhilk huntit doun war fro the hevinly hall
To hellis hole, and to that hideous house,
Because of pryde thai war presumptuous.

This feynit Fox may wele be figurate
To flatteraris with pleasand wirdis quhite,
With fals menyng and mouth mellifluate,
To loif and lee quhilk settis thair haill delyte.
All worthy folk at sic suld hafe dispyte;
For quhair is moir perilous pestilence
Than gif to liaris haistely credence.

This wikkit wind of adulatioun,
Of swete socour hafand similitude,
Bittir as gall, and full of fell poysoun
To taist it is, quha clerely understude.
Forthy, as now schortly to conclude,
Thir twa synnis, flattery and vain glore,
Ar venemous: gude folk, fle thame thairfore.