Lines 621–908

Lowerd, we sholen þe wel fede,
Til þat þu cone riden on stede,
Til þat þu cone ful wel bere
Helm on heued, sheld and spere.
He ne shal neuere wite, sikerlike,
Godard, þat fule swike.
Þoru oþer man, louerd, than þoru þe,
Sal i neuere freman be.
Þou shalt me, louerd, fre maken,
For i shal yemen þe, and waken;
Þoru þe wile i fredom haue:”
Þo was haueloc a bliþe knaue.
He sat him up, and crauede bred.
And seide, “ich am wel ney ded,
Hwat for hunger, wat for bondes
Þat þu leidest on min hondes;
And for þe keuel at þe laste,
Þat in mi mouth was þrist faste.
y was þer-with so harde prangled,
Þat i was þer-with neye strangled.”
“Wel is me þat þu mayth hete:
Goddoth!” quath leue, “y shal þe fete
Bred an chese, butere and milk,
Pastees and flaunes, al with suilk
Shole we sone þe wel fede,
Louerd, in þis mikel nede,
Soth it is, þat men seyt and suereth:
‘Þer god wile helpen, nouth no dereth.’”

Þanne sho hauede brouth þe mete,
Haueloc anon bigan to ete
Grundlike, and was ful bliþe;
Couþe he nouth his hunger Miþe.
A lof he het, y woth, and more,
For him hungrede swiþe sore.
Þre dayes þer-biforn, i wene,
Et he no mete, þat was wel sene.
Hwan he hauede eten, and was fed,
Grim dede maken a ful fayr bed;
Vncloþede him, and dede him þer-inne,
And seyde, “Slep sone, with michel winne;
Slep wel faste, and dred þe nouth,
Fro sorwe to ioie art þu brouth.”
Sone so it was lith of day,
Grim it under-tok þe wey
To þe wicke traitour godard,
Þat was denemak a stiward,
And seyde, “louerd, don ich haue
Þat þou me bede of þe knaue;
He is drenched in þe flod,
Abouten his hals an anker god;
He is witer-like ded,
Eteth he neure more bred;
He liþ drenched in þe se:--
Yif me gold and oþer fe,
Þat y mowe riche be;
And with þi chartre make me fre,
For þu ful wel bi-hetet me,
Þanne i laste spak with þe.”
Godard stod, and lokede on him
Þoruth-like, with eyne grim;
And seyde, “Wiltu nou ben erl?
Go hom swiþe, fule drit, cherl;
Go heþen, and be euere-more
Þral and cherl, als þou er wore.
Shal þou haue non oþer mede;
For litel i shal do þe lede
To þe galues, so god me rede!
For þou haues don a wicke dede.
Þou Mait stonden her to longe,
Bute þou swiþe eþen gonge.”

Grim thoucte to late þat he ran
Fro þat traytour, þa wicke man;
And þoucte, “wat shal me to rede?
Wite he him onliue, he wile beþe
Heye hangen on galwe-tre:
Betere us is of londe to fle,
And berwen boþen ure liues,
And mine children, and mine wiues.”
Grim solde sone al his corn,
Shep wit wolle, neth wit horn,
Hors, and swin, and gate wit berd,
Þe gees, þe hennes of þe yerd;
Al he solde, þat outh douthe,
That he eure selle moucte,
And al he to þe peni drou:
Hise ship he greyþede wel inow,
He dede it tere, an ful wel pike,
Þat it ne doutede sond ne krike;
Þer-inne dide a ful god mast,
Stronge kables, and ful fast,
Ores god, an ful god seyl,
Þer-inne wantede nouth a nayl,
Þat euere he sholde þer-inne do:
Hwan he hauedet greyþed so,
Hauelok þe yunge he dide þer-inne,
Him and his wif, hise sones þrinne,
And hise two doutres, þat faire wore,
And sone dede he leyn in an ore,
And drou him to þe heye se,
Þere he mith alþer-beste fle.
Fro londe woren he bote a mile,
Ne were neuere but ane hwile,
Þat it ne bigan a wind to Rise
Out of þe north, men calleth ‘bise’
And drof hem intil engelond,
Þat al was siþen in his hond,
His, þat hauelok was þe name;
But or he hauede michel shame,
Michel sorwe, and michel tene,
And þrie he gat it al bidene;
Als ye shulen nou forthwar lere,
Yf that ye wilen þer-to here.

IN humber grim bigan to lende,
In lindeseye, Rith at þe north ende.
Þer sat is ship up-on þe sond,
But grim it drou up to þe lond;
And þere he made a litel cote,
To him and to hise flote.
Bigan he þere for to erþe,
A litel hus to maken of erþe,
So þat he wel þore were
Of here herboru herborwed þere;
And for þat grim þat place aute,
Þe stede of grim þe name laute;
So þat hit grimesbi calleth alle
Þat þer-offe speken alle,
And so shulen men callen it ay,
Bituene þis and domesday.

Grim was fishere swiþe god,
And mikel couþe on the flod;
Mani god fish þer-inne he tok,
Boþe with neth, and with hok.
He tok þe sturgiun, and þe qual,
And þe turbut, and lax with-al,
He tok þe sele, and þe hwel;
He spedde ofte swiþe wel:
Keling he tok, and tumberel,
Hering, and þe makerel,
Þe Butte, þe schulle, þe þornebake:
Gode paniers dede he make
Ontil him, and oþer þrinne,
Til hise sones to beren fish inne,
Vp o-londe to selle and fonge;
Forbar he neyþer tun, ne gronge,
Þat he ne to-yede with his ware;
Kam he neuere hom hand-bare,
Þat he ne broucte bred and sowel,
In his shirte, or in his couel;
In his poke benes and korn:--
Hise swink ne hauede he nowt forlorn.
And hwan he tok þe grete laumprei,
Ful wel he couþe þe rithe wei
To lincolne, þe gode boru;
Ofte he yede it þoru and þoru,
Til he hauede wol wel sold,
And þer-fore þe penies told.
Þanne he com, þenne he were bliþe,
For hom he brouthe fele siþe
Wastels, simenels with þe horn,
Hise pokes fulle of mele an korn,
Netes flesh, shepes, and swines,
And hemp to maken of gode lines;
And stronge ropes to hise netes,
In þe se weren he ofte setes.

Þus-gate grim him fayre ledde.
Him and his genge wel he fedde
Wel twelf winter, oþer more:
Hauelok was war þat grim swank sore
For his mete, and he lay at hom:
Thouthe, “ich am nou no grom;
Ich am wel waxen, and wel may eten
More þan euere Grim may geten.
Ich ete more, bi god on liue,
Þan grim an hise children fiue!
It ne may nouth ben þus longe,
Goddot! y wile with þe gange,
For to leren sum god to gete;
Swinken ich wolde for mi mete.
It is no shame forto swinken;
Þe man þat may wel eten and drinken,
Þat nouth ne haue but on swink long,
To liggen at hom it is ful strong.
God yelde him þer i ne may,
Þat haueth me fed to þis day!
Gladlike i wile þe paniers bere;
Ich woth, ne shal it me nouth dere,
Þey þer be inne a birþene gret,
Al so heui als a neth.
Shal ich neuere lengere dwelle,
To morwen shal ich forth pelle.”

On þe morwen, hwan it was day,
He stirt up sone, and nouth ne lay;
And cast a panier on his bac,
With fish giueled als a stac;
Also michel he bar him one,
So he foure, bi mine mone!
Wel he it bar, and solde it wel,
Þe siluer he brouthe hom il del;
Al þat he þer-fore tok
With-held he nouth a ferþinges nok.
So yede he forth ilke day,
Þat he neuere at home lay.
So wolde he his mester lere;
Bifel it so a strong dere
Bigan to rise of korn of bred,
That grim ne couþe no god red,
Hw he sholde his meine fede;
Of hauelok hauede he michel drede:
For he was strong, and wel mouthe ete
More þanne heuere mouthe he gete;
Ne he ne mouthe on þe se take
Neyþer lenge, ne þornebake,
Ne non oþer fish þat douthe
His meyne feden with her mouthe.
Of hauelok he hauede kare,
Hwilgat þat he micthe fare;
Of his children was him nouth,
On hauelok was al hise þouth,
And seyde, “hauelok, dere sone,
I wene that we deye mone
For hunger, þis dere is so strong,
And hure mete is uten long.
Betere is þat þu henne gonge,
Þan þu here dwelle longe;
Heþen þow mayt gangen to late;
Thou canst ful wel þe ricthe gate
To lincolne, þe gode borw,
Þou hauest it gon ful ofte þoru;
Of me ne is me nouth a slo,
Betere is þat þu þider go,
For þer is mani god man inne,
Þer þou mayt þi mete winne.
But wo is me! þou art so naked,
Of mi seyl y wolde þe were maked
A cloth, þou mithest inne gongen,
Sone, no cold þat þu ne fonge.”

He tok þe sheres of þe nayl,
And made him a couel of þe sayl,
And hauelok dide it sone on;
Hauede neyþer hosen ne shon,
Ne none kines oþer wede;
To lincolne barfot he yede.
Hwan he kam þer, he was ful wil,
Ne hauede he no frend to gangen til;
Two dayes þer fastinde he yede,
Þat non for his werk wolde him fede;
Þe þridde day herde he calle:
“Bermen, bermen, hider forth alle!”
Poure þat on fote yede
Sprongen forth so sparke on glede.
Hauelok shof dun nyne or ten,
Rith amidewarde þe fen,
And stirte forth to þe kok,
Þer the herles mete he tok,
Þat he bouthe at þe brigge:
Þe bermen let he alle ligge,
And bar þe mete to þe castel,
And gat him þere a ferþing wastel.

Þet oþer day kepte he ok
Swiþe yerne þe erles kok,
Til þat he say him on þe brigge,
And bi him mani fishes ligge.
Þe herles mete hauede he bouth
Of cornwalie, and kalde oft:
“Bermen, bermen, hider swiþe!”
Hauelok it herde, and was ful bliþe,
Þat he herde “bermen” calle;
Alle made he hem dun falle
Þat in his gate yeden and stode,
Wel sixtene laddes gode.
Als he lep þe kok vn-til,
He shof hem alle upon an hyl;
Astirte til him with his rippe,
And bigan þe fish to kippe.
He bar up wel a carte lode
Of segges, laxes, of playces brode,
Of grete laumprees, and of eles;
Sparede he neyþer tos ne heles,
Til þat he to þe castel cam,
Þat men fro him his birþene nam.
Þan men haueden holpen him doun
With þe birþene of his croun,
Þe kok bi stod, and on him low,
And þoute him stalworþe man ynow,
And seyde, “wiltu ben wit me?
Gladlike wile ich feden þe;
Wel is set þe mete þu etes,
And þe hire þat þu getes.”