Lines 1806–2095

Hauelok lifte up þe dore-tre,
And at a dint he slow hem þre;
Was non of hem þat his hernes
Ne lay þer-ute ageyn þe sternes.
Þe ferþe þat he siþen mette,
Wit þe barre so he him grette,
Bifor þe heued, þat þe rith eye
Vt of þe hole made he fleye,
And siþe clapte him on þe crune,
So þat he stan-ded fel þor dune.
Þe fifte þat he ouer-tok,
Gaf he a ful sor dinte ok,
Bitwen þe sholdres, þer he stod,
Þat he spen his herte blod.
Þe sixte wende for to fle,
And he clapte him with þe tre
Rith in þe fule necke so,
Þat he smot hise necke on to.
Þanne þe sixe weren doun feld,
Þe seuenþe brayd ut his swerd,
And wolde hauelok Riht in the eye;
And hauelok let þe barre fleye,
And smot him sone ageyn þe brest,
Þat hauede he neuere schrifte of prest;
For he was ded on lesse hwile,
Þan men mouthe renne a mile.
Alle þe oþere weren ful kene,
A red þei taken hem bi-twene,
þat he sholde him bi-halue,
And brisen so, þat wit no salue
Ne sholde him helen leche non:
Þey drowen ut swerdes, ful god won,
And shoten on him, so don on bere
Dogges, þat wolden him to-tere,
Þanne men doth þe bere beyte:
Þe laddes were kaske and teyte,
And vn-bi-yeden him ilkon,
Sum smot with tre, and sum wit ston;
Summe putten with gleyue, in bac and side,
And yeuen wundes longe and wide;
In twenti stedes, and wel mo,
Fro þe croune til the to.
Hwan he saw þat, he was wod,
And was it ferlik hw he stod,
For the blod ran of his sides
So water þat fro þe welle glides;
But þanne bigan he for to mowe
With the barre, and let hem shewe,
Hw he cowþe sore smite,
For was þer non, long ne lite,
Þat he Mouthe ouer-take,
Þat he ne garte his croune krake;
So þat on a litel stund,
Felde he twenti to þe grund.

Þo bigan gret dine to rise,
For þe laddes on ilke wise
Him asayleden wit grete dintes,
Fro fer he stoden, him with flintes
And gleyues schoten him fro ferne,
For drepen him he wolden yerne;
But dursten he newhen him no more,
Þanne he bor or leun wore.

Huwe rauen þat dine herde,
And þowthe wel, þat men mis-ferde
With his louerd, for his wif,
And grop an ore, and a long knif,
And þider drof al so an hert,
And cham þer on a litel stert,
And saw how þe laddes wode
Hauelok his louerd umbistode,
And beten on him so doth þe smith
With þe hamer on þe stith.

“Allas!” hwat hwe, “þat y was boren!
Þat euere et ich bred of koren!
Þat ich here þis sorwe se!
Roberd! willam! hware ar ye?
Gripeth eþer unker a god tre,
And late we nouth þise doges fle,
Til ure louerd wreke we;
Cometh swiþe, and folwes me!
Ich haue in honde a ful god ore:
Datheit wo ne smite sore!”
“Ya! leue, ya!” quod roberd sone,
“We hauen ful god lith of þe mone.”
Roberd grop a staf, strong and gret,
Þat mouthe ful wel bere a net,
And willam wendut grop a tre
Mikel grettere þan his þe,
And bernard held his ax ful faste;
I seye, was he nouth þe laste;
And lopen forth so he weren wode
To þe laddes, þer he stode,
And yaf hem wundes swiþe grete;
Þer mithe men wel se boyes bete,
And ribbes in here sides breke,
And hauelok on hem wel wreke.
He broken armes, he broken knes,
He broken shankes, he broken thes.
He dide þe blode þere renne dune
To þe fet rith fro the crune,
For was þer spared heued non:
He leyden on heuedes, ful god won,
And made crounes breke and crake,
Of þe broune, and of þe blake;
He maden here backes al so bloute
Als here wombes, and made hem rowte
Als he weren kradelbarnes:
So dos þe child þat moder þarnes.

Daþeit wo recke! for he it seruede,
Hwat dide he þore weren he werewed;
So longe haueden he but and bet
With neues under hernes set,
Þat of þo sixti men and on
Ne wente þer awey liues non.

ON þe morwen, hwan it was day,
Ilc on other wirwed lay,
Als it were dogges þat weren henged,
And summe leye in dikes slenget,
And summe in gripes bi þe her
Drawen ware, and laten ther.
Sket cam tiding intil ubbe,
Þat hauelok hauede with a clubbe
Of hise slawen sixti and on
Sergaunz, þe beste þat mithen gon.
“Deus!” quoth ubbe, “hwat may þis be!
Betere his i nime miself and se,
Þat þis baret on hwat is wold,
Þanne i sende yunge or old.
For yif i sende him un-to,
I wene men sholde him shame do,
And þat ne wolde ich for no þing:
I loue him wel, bi heuene king!
Me wore leuere i wore lame,
Þanne men dide him ani shame,
Or tok, or onne handes leyde,
Vn-ornelike, or same seyde.”
He lep up on a stede lith,
And with him mani a noble knith,
And ferde forth un-to þe tun,
And dide calle bernard brun
Vt of his hus, wan he þer cam;
And bernard sone ageyn him nam,
Al to-tused and al to-torn,
Ner also naked so he was born,
And al to-brised, bac and þe:
Quoth ubbe, “bernard, hwat is þe?
Hwo haues þe þus ille maked,
Þus to-riuen, and al mad naked?”

“Louerd, merci,” quot he sone,
“To-nicht also ros þe mone
Comen her mo þan sixti þeues,
With lokene copes, and wide sleues,
Me forto robben, and to pine,
And for to drepe me and mine.
Mi dore he broken up ful sket,
And wolde me binden hond and fet.
Wan þe godemen þat sawe,
Hauelok, and he þat bi þe wowe
Leye, he stirten up sone on-on,
And summe grop tre, and sum grop ston,
And driue hem ut, þei he weren crus,
So dogges ut of milne-hous.
Hauelok grop þe dore-tre,
And at a dint he slow hem thre.
He is þe beste man at nede,
Þat euere mar shal ride stede!
Als helpe god, bi mine wone,
A þhousend of men his he worth one!
Yif he ne were, ich were nou ded,
So haue ich don Mi soule red;
But it is hof him mikel sinne;
He maden him swilke woundes þrinne,
Þat of þe alþer-leste wounde
Were a stede brouht to grunde.
He haues a wunde in the side,
With a gleyue, ful un-ride,
And he haues on þoru his arum,
Þer-of is ful mikel harum,
And he haues on þoru his þhe,
Þe vn-rideste þat men may se,
And oþer wundes haues he stronge,
Mo than twenti swiþe longe.
But siþen he hauede lauth þe sor
Of þe wundes, was neuere bor
Þat so fauth so he fauth þanne;
Was non þat hauede þe hern-panne
So hard, þat he ne dede alto-cruhsse,
And alto-shiuere, and alto-frusshe.
He folwede hem so hund dos hare,
Daþeyt on he wolde spare,
Þat he ne made hem euerilk on
Ligge stille so doth þe ston:
And þer nis he nouth to frie,
For oþer sholde he make hem lye
Ded, or þei him hauede slawen,
Or alto-hewen, or al-to-drawen.

Louerd, haui no more plith
Of þat ich was þus greþed to-nith.
Þus wolde þe theues me haue reft,
But god-þank, he hauenet sure keft.
But it is of him mikel scaþe:
I woth þat he bes ded ful raþe.”

Quoth ubbe, “bernard, seyst þou soth?”
“Ya, sire, that i ne lepe oth.
Yif y, louerd, a word leye,
To-morwen do me hengen heye.”
Þe burgeys þat þer-bi stode þore,
Grundlike and grete oþes swore,
Litle and mikle, yunge and holde,
Þat was soth, þat bernard tolde.
Soth was, þat he wolden him bynde,
And trusse al þat he mithen fynde
Of hise, in arke or in kiste,
Þat he mouthe in seckes þriste.
“Louerd, he haueden al awey born
His þing, and him-self alto-torn,
But als god self barw him wel,
Þat he ne tinte no catel.
Hwo mithe so mani stonde ageyn,
Bi nither-tale, knith or swein?
He weren bi tale sixti and ten,
Starke laddes, stalworþi men,
And on, þe mayster of hem alle,
Þat was þe name giffin galle.
Hwo mouthe ageyn so mani stonde,
But als þis man of ferne londe
Haueth hem slawen with a tre?
Mikel ioie haue he!
God yeue him mikel god to welde,
Boþe in tun, and ek in felde!
Wel is set he etes mete.”
Quoth ubbe, “doth him swiþe fete,
Þat y mouthe his woundes se,
Yf that he mouthen heled be.
For yf he mouthe couere yet,
And gangen wel up-on hise fet,
Mi-self shal dubbe him to knith,
For-þi þat he is so with.
And yif he liuede, þo foule theues,
Þat weren of kaym kin and eues,
He sholden hange bi þe necke;
Of here ded daþeit wo recke,
Hwan he yeden þus on nithes
To binde boþe burgmen and knithes.
For bynderes loue ich neuere mo,
Of hem ne yeue ich nouht a slo.”

Hauelok was bifore ubbe browth,
Þat hauede for him ful mikel þouth,
And mikel sorwe in his herte
For hise wundes, þat wer so smerte.

But hwan his wundes weren shewed,
And a leche hauede knawed,
Þat he hem mouthe ful wel hele,
Wel make him gange, and ful wel mele,
And wel a palefrey bistride,
And wel up-on a stede ride,
Þo let ubbe al his care
And al his sorwe ouer-fare;
And seyde, “cum now forth with me,
And goldeboru, þi wif, with þe,
And þine seriaunz al þre,
For nou wile y youre warant be;
Wile y non of here frend
Þat þu slowe with þin hend
Moucte wayte þe to slo,
Also þou gange to and fro.
I shal lene þe a bowr,
Þat is up in þe heye tour,
Til þou mowe ful wel go,
And wel ben hol of al þi wo.
It ne shal no þing ben bitwene
Þi bour and min, also y wene,
But a fayr firrene wowe;--
Speke y loude, or spek y lowe,
Þou shalt ful wel heren me,
And þan þu wilt, þou shalt me se.
A rof shal hile us boþe o-nith,
Þat none of mine, clerk ne knith,
Ne sholen þi wif no shame bede,
No more þan min, so god me rede!”

HE dide un-to þe borw bringe
Sone anon, al with ioynge,
His wif, and his serganz þre,
Þe beste men þat mouthe be.
Þe firste nith he lay þer-inne,
Hise wif, and his serganz þrinne,
Aboute þe middel of þe nith
Wok ubbe, and saw a mikel lith
In þe bour þat hauelok lay,
Also brith so it were day.