Against a Baron, Who Had Committed Robbery on Christmas Day

Great is the Feast, but that man keeps it ill
Who lifts men's cattle, and at will does slay;
And one I will not name, his pot does fill
With flesh ill-gotten, e'en on Christmas day.
Such flesh, I say, is no wise sweet and sound,
Unlawful too, since law it does gainsay;
Less wit than in a suckling may be found
Has he that honours Christmas in such way.

If but a sheet he steal, with head bent low
The poor man crouches, and a thief is named,
While through the world full haughtily may go
The robber baron, robbing all unshamed.
The churl for nothing swings, a grievous fate,
As if another's stallion he had claimed;
The rich thief hangs the poor, for nowise straight
As is an arrow is their course ill-famed.

At will I sing and fiddle, none give heed.
And none but I my singing reads aright;
As well may men the subtle meaning read
Of nightingales' sweet songs, poured forth at night.
Yet mine is not the language of Anjou,
Breton or Norman it is no wise hight;
But they no more can 'twixt the false and true
Distinguish, such through sin their grievous plight.