Lines 1–280

Alle beon he bliþe
Þat to my song lyþe,
A sang ihc schal ȝou singe
Of Murry þe kinge.
King he was biweste
So longe so hit laste.
Godhild het his quen;
Faire ne miȝte non ben.
He hadde a sone þat het horn;
Fairer ne miste non beo born,
Ne no rein vpon birine,
Ne sunne vpon bischine.
Fairer nis non þane he was;
He was briȝt so þe glas.
He was whit so þe flur,
Rose red was his colur.
In none kinge riche
Nas non his iliche.
Twelf feren he hadde
Þat alle wiþ him ladde,
Alle riche mannes sones,
And alle hi were faire gomes,
Wiþ him for to pleie.
And mest he luuede tweie;
Þat on him het haþulf child,
And þat oþer ffikenild.
Aþulf was þe beste
And fikenylde þe werste.
Hit was vpon a someres day,
Also ihc ȝou telle may,
Murri þe gode king
Rod on his pleing
Bi þe se side,
Ase he was woned ride.
He fond bi þe stronde,
Ariued on his londe,
Schipes fiftene,
Wiþ sarazins kene.
He axede what isoȝte
Oþer to londe broȝte.
A Payn hit of herde
And hym wel sone answarede,
“Þi lond folk we schulle slon
And alle þat Crist luueþ vpon,
And þe selue riȝt anon;
Ne schaltu todai henne gon.”
Þe kyng aliȝte of his stede,
For þo he hauede nede,
And his gode kniȝtes two;
Al to fewe he hadde þo.
Swerd hi gunne gripe
And to gadere smite.
Hy smyten vnder schelde
Þat sume hit yfelde.
Þe king hadde al to fewe
Toȝenes so vele schrewe.
So fele miȝten yþe
Bringe hem þre to diþe.
Þe pains come to londe
And neme hit in here honde.
Þat folc hi gunne quelle
And churchen for to felle.
Þer ne moste libbe
Þe fremde ne þe sibbe,
Bute hi here laȝe asoke
And to here toke.
Of alle wymmanne
Wurst was godhild þanne.
For Murri heo weop sore
And for horn ȝute more.
He wenten vt of halle,
Fram hire Maidenes alle,
Vnder a roche of stone.
Þer heo liuede alone.
Þer heo seruede gode,
Aȝenes þe paynes forbode.
Þer he seruede criste,
Þat no payn hit ne wiste.
Euere heo bad for horn child,
Þat Iesu crist him beo myld.
Horn was in paynes honde
Wiþ his feren of þe londe.
Muchel was his fairhede,
For ihesu crist him makede.
Payns him wolde slen
Oþer al quic flen.
Ȝef his fairnesse nere,
Þe children alle aslaȝe were.
Þanne spak on Admirad,
Of wordes he was bald,
“Horn, þu art wel kene,
And þat is wel isene;
Þu art gret and strong,
fair and euene long.
Þu schalt waxe more
Bi fulle seue ȝere.
Ȝef þu mote to liue go,
And þine feren also,
Ȝef hit so bi falle,
Ȝe scholde slen vs alle.
Þaruore þu most to stere,
Þu and þine ifere.
To schupe schulle ȝe funde
And sinke to þe grunde.
Þe se ȝou schal adrenche;
Ne schal hit us noȝt of þinche.
For if þu were aliue,
Wiþ swerd oþer wiþ kniue
We scholden alle deie,
And þi fader deþ abeie.”
Þe children hi broȝte to stronde,
Wringinde here honde,
Into schupes borde
At þe furste worde.
Ofte hadde horn beo wo,
At neure wurs þan him was þo.
Þe se bigan to flowe
And hornchild to rowe.
Þe se þat schup so faste drof,
Þe children dradde þer of.
Hi wenden to wisse
Of here lif to misse,
Al þe day and al þe niȝt,
Til hit sprang dai liȝt.
Til horn saȝ on þe stronde
Men gon in þe londe.
“Feren,” quaþ he, “ȝonge,
Ihc telle ȝou tiþinge.
Ihc here foȝeles singe
And þat gras him springe.
Bliþe beo we on lyue,
Vre schup is on ryue.”
Of schup hi gunne funde
And setten fout to grunde.
Bi þe se side
Hi leten þat schup ride.
Þanne spak him child horn,
In suddene he was iborn,
“Schup, bi þe se flode,
Daies haue þu gode;
Bi þe se brinke
No water þe na drinke.
Ȝef þu cume to Suddenne,
Gret þu wel of myne kenne;
Gret þu wel my moder,
Godhild, quen þe gode.
And seie þe paene kyng,
Iesucristes wiþering,
Þat ihc am hol and fer
On þis lond ariued her.
And seie þat hei schal fonde
Þe dent of myne honde.”
Þe children ȝede to Tune
Bi dales and bi dune.
Hy metten wiþ almair king,
Crist ȝeuen him his blessing,
King of Westernesse,
Crist ȝiue him Muchel blisse.
He him spac to horn child
Wordes þat were Mild,
“Whannes beo ȝe, faire gumes,
Þat her to londe beoþ icume,
Alle þrottene
Of bodie swiþe kene?
Bigod þat me makede,
A swihc fair verade
Ne sauȝ ihc in none stunde
Bi westene londe.
Seie me wat ȝe seche.”
Horn spak here speche,
He spak for hem alle,
Vor so hit moste biualle.
He was þe faireste
And of wit þe beste.
“We beoþ of Suddenne,
Icome of gode kenne,
Of Cristene blode
And kynges suþe gode.
Payns þer gunne ariue
And duden hem of lyue.
Hi sloȝen and to droȝe
Cristenemen inoȝe.
So crist me mote rede,
Vs he dude lede
In to a galeie,
Wiþ þe se to pleie.
Dai hit is igon and oþer
Wiþute sail and roþer.
Vre schip bigan to swymme
To þis londes brymme.
Nu þu miȝt vs slen, and binde
Vre honde bihynde.
Bute ȝef hit beo þi wille,
Helpe þat we ne spille.”
Þanne spak þe gode kyng,
I wis he nas no Niþing,
“Seie me, child, what is þi name?
Ne schaltu haue bute game.”
Þe child him answerde,
Sone so he hit herde,
“Horn ihc am ihote,
Icomen vt of þe bote,
Fram þe se side,
Kyng, wel mote þe tide.”
Þanne hym spak þe gode king,
“Wel bruc þu þin euening.
Horn, þu go wel schulle
Bi dales and bi hulle.
Horn, þu lude sune
Bi dales and bi dune.
So schal þi name springe
Fram kynge to kynge,
And þi fairnesse
Abute Westernesse,
Þe strengþe of þine honde
Into Eurech londe.
Horn, þu art so swete
Ne may ihc þe forlete.”
Hom rod Aylmar þe kyng,
And horn mid him his fundyng
And alle his ifere,
Þat were him so dere.
Þe kyng com in to halle
Among his kniȝtes alle;
Forþ he clupede aþelbrus,
Þat was stiward of his hus.
“Stiwarde, tak nu here
Mi fundlyng for to lere
Of þine mestere,
Of wude and of riuere,
And tech him to harpe
Wiþ his nayles scharpe,
Biuore me to kerue
And of þe cupe serue.
Þu tech him of alle þe liste
Þat þu eure of wiste.
In his feiren þou wise
In to oþere seruise.
Horn þu vnderuonge
And tech him of harpe and songe.”
Ailbrus gan lere
Horn and his yfere.
Horn in herte laȝte
Al þat he him taȝte.
In þe curt and vte,
And elles al abute,
Luuede men horn child;
And mest him louede Rymenhild,
Þe kynges oȝene dofter.
He was mest in þoȝte.
Heo louede so horn child,
Þat neȝ heo gan wexe wild;
For heo ne miȝte at borde
Wiþ him speke no worde,
Ne noȝt in þe halle
Among þe kniȝtes alle,
Ne nowhar in non oþere stede,
Of folk heo hadde drede,
Bi daie ne bi niȝte,
Wiþ him speke ne miȝte.
Hire soreȝe ne hire pine
Ne miȝte neure fine.
In heorte heo hadde wo,
And þus hire biþoȝte þo.