Lines 1–422

In summertide it so befell
I found me in a hidden dell,
Where strife did 'twixt two birds prevail,
Even an Owl and Nightingale.
Their plaint was shrill, and sharp, and strong,
Whiles was it soft, then loud, their song;
Each with the other waxed right wroth,
And each her evil mood poured forth;
Each on the other's customs cried,
And said the worst she knew that tide;

And each one 'gainst the other's song
There made complaint both loud and long.

The. Nightingale was first with speech,
Ensconced was she within a beech,
And perched upon a fair green bough,
While all about were flowers enow;
For very thick it grew, the hedge,
With blades of grass mixed, and green sedge,
The gladder for that fair green bough
Skilful her song, and sweet, I trow,
Yea, one had deemed, those notes to hear,
That harp and pipe were hidden near;
Rather it seemed it came, each note,
From harp, or pipe, than from bird's throat.

There stood an old stump near beside,
There the Owl sung her song that tide,
With ivy was it over-grown,
Unto the Owl 't was house and home.

The Nightingale the Owl saw well,
Scornful her glances on her fell,
She thought right evil of that Owl,
(Men deem it aye loathly, and foul —
"Monster," she quoth; "hence shalt thou flee,
I am the worse for seeing thee,
I trow thine evil cry, and strong,
Doth force me oft to cease my song;
My tongue doth fail, my courage flee,
When thus I know thee close to me,
Liefer am I to spit than sing,
Thy hooting doth such loathing bring!"

The Owl sat still, for eve drew nigh,
Nor longer would withold reply,
Her heart it swelled to hear that tale,
Well nigh her breath for wrath did fail.
She spake a word ere it was long:
"How? Thinkest thou to blame my song?
What, dost thou deem I cannot sing
Since trill nor run I skilful string?
I trow full oft thou dost me blame
And heapest on me scorn and shame;
Nay, an my foot had hold of thee, —
May chance betide that so it be! —
And thou wert down from off thy bough,
Wouldst sing another song, I trow!"

The Nightingale made answer there:
"An I may keep me fast and fair,
And shield me with the open bough,
I care not for thy threats, I trow.
So I may hold my hedge alway,
I little care what thou may'st say.
I wot small mercy dost thou tell
To those who may not shield them well,
Dost show thy wrath, and evil spite
To all small birds, when hast the might.
All kinds of fowl, they loath thee sore,
And drive thee hence, their flocks before
'Gainst thee they shriek, 'gainst thee they cry,
And ever close behind thee fly.
The very titmouse, tho' she be
Right small, would tear thee willingly!
Yea, thou art loathly to behold,
Thine ugliness is manifold;
Thy body short, thy neck so small,
Greater thy head than thou withal;
Thine eyes be black, and broad to see,
As with burnt wood they painted be;
Thou starest, as wert fain to bite
Those whom thy claws would sharply smite.
Thy bill is hooked, and sharp withal,
Yea, like unto a crooked awl;
With that thou clackest oft, and long,
And that alone shall be thy song.
Fain art to threaten this, my flesh,
Would' st catch and hold me in a mesh,
As I to frogs were kin, I wit,
Who hidden 'neath the mill-wheel sit,
But snails and mice, and vermin small,
These be thy kin, thy right withal.
Dost hide by day, by night dost fly,
A monster art thou, verily,
Loathsome thou art too, and unclean,
As by thy nest is clearly seen,
And by thine owlets, right foul brood
Be they, and fed on right foul food."

These words she spake, the Nightingale,
And having ended thus her tale,
She sang so loud, and shrill, and sharp,
'T was e'en as tho' one twanged a harp.
The Owl, she hearkened well that cry,
And ever downward turned her eye,
So puffed and swollen was she seen,
As she had gulped a frog, I ween,
For that she wist the song should be
Against her sung, in mockery.
Natheless, swift answer would she try;
"Why dost not in the open fly,
And see which of us twain shall be
Brightest of hue, most fair to see?"
"Nay, all too sharp thy claws, I trow,
I would not they should hold me now,
So swift and strong thy clutch doth fall,
E'en as a tongs it grips withal,
Didst think, as doth thy like alway,
Thou could'st with fair words me betray?
I follow not thy rede, I wis,
Thy counsel fain would lead amiss,
Forsooth, it bringeth shame on thee,
Discovered is thy treachery
Nay, shield thy treason from the light,
And hide thy wrong beneath the right;
Wilt thou indulge thine evil spleen,
Then look thou that it be not seen!
For treason is with hate received
If it be open, and perceived.
Thy guile, it naught may profit thee
Since I be ware, and well may flee;
It helps thee naught that thou hast might,
I, with my wiles, may better fight
Than thou may'st do, with all thy strength,
I have, alike in breadth and length,
Here on my bough good harbourage,
'Well fights, who flies well,' saith the sage!
But put we to this strife an end,
It profits naught such words to spend,
And a right judgment now to win
With fair and peaceful words begin.
Though we be not of one accord
'T were better far with gentle word,
Without discord, and without fight,
To plead our cause with sooth and right.
Let each of us say what she will,
In words well chosen, and with skill."
Then quoth the Owl: "Who shall be fain
To judge aright betwixt us twain?"
"I trow well," quoth the Nightingale
"Hereof shall be no lengthy tale,
For Master Nichole, of Guildford,
Right wise shall be, of skilful word,
In judgment wary he, and wise,
No vice finds favour in his eyes,
He'll know right well, in this our song,
Who singeth right, who singeth wrong,
And he can sever from the right
The wrong, the darkness from the light."

The Owl awhile had her bethought
Before this answer forth she brought:
"I'll grant that he our judge shall be;
Tho' one-while passionate were he,
And loved the Nightingale withal,
And other song-birds that be small,
I trow his passions now be cooled,
And he by thee will not be fooled
In such wise that, for olden love,
He put me down, and thee above.
Ne'er shalt thou please him so, I
That he for thee shall judge amiss.
Of wisdom ripe, of steadfast rede,
To ill advice he'll ne'er take heed;
Now hath he no more lust for play,
But sure will take the rightful way."

Ready the Nightingale; (I trow
Had learned her lesson well enow —
"Owl," quoth she then, "now say me sooth,
Why dost thou as a monster doeth?
Thou sing'st by night, and not by day,
And all thy song is 'Wellaway,'
I trow thy song, it bringeth fear
To all men who its fashion hear;
Thou to thy mate dost shriek and yell
In grisley wise, the sooth to tell.
Wise men, or fools, awaked from sleep,
They deem thou sing'st not, but dost weep.
Thou fly'st by night, and not by day —
Thereof I marvel, and well may,
For everything that shunneth right
Loveth the darkness, hateth light;
And every one who loves misdeed
Seeketh the darkness for his need.
A wise word, tho' perchance unclean,
Is in men's mouths full oft, I ween,
King Alfred, he hath written, Owl,
'A man shuns those who know him foul.'
I trow e'en so with thee it is,
Thou fliest aye by night, I wis.
Another thing with thee is seen,
By night thine eyes be bright and keen,
By day-light shalt thou be stark blind,
Thou see'st neither bough nor rind;
Art blind, or well nigh blind, by day —
Thereby in parable men say
Right so the evil man doth wend
Who seeth naught to a good end,
And is so full of evil guile
That no man may escape his wile.
Right well the dark way doth he know,
And from the light aside doth go.
And even so thy kin doth fare,
For light, I trow, have they no care."

The Owl had hearkened over long,
Her wrath by now had waxed full strong,
She quoth: "Thou Nightingale would'st be,
Chatterer, were fit name for thee!
Forsooth, too many tales dost tell,
A splint would suit thy tongue right well
Thou deemest thou hast won the day;
Now shalt thou let me have my say,
Shalt hold thee still, and let me speak,
I will my vengeance on thee wreak.
Now list how I'll defend me well
And truly, nor long tale will tell.
Thou say'st I hide my head by day —
Thereto I think not to say Nay,
But hearken, and I'll tell to thee
Both why, and wherefore, this shall be.
I have a bill both stiff and strong,
And right good claws, both sharp and long,
As suiteth well unto hawk's kin —
Pleasure and practice lie herein
That I may nature follow free —
No man for that lays blame on me,
Therefore in me it may be seen
That I by nature be right keen.
Thus to the small birds loath am I,
Who low by ground or thicket fly,
They cry and shriek behind my back,
Follow in flocks upon my track;
It pleaseth me to be at rest,
And hold me still upon my nest,
I trow no whit the better I
To chafe and chatter, verily,
And scold them in foul words withal,
Herdsmen each other so miscall.
With shrews I have no lust to chide,
My way, it lieth from them wide.
A wise man judgeth thus alway,
And he full oft that same doth say:
'Men should not with the foolish chide
Nor with the oven yawn full wide,'
And I have some-time heard it tell
How Alfred spake, wisely, and well:
'Look that thy way thou never hold
Where men be wont to strive and scold —
Let fools chide, and the wise men go —
And I be wise, and do also.
And Alfred spake, some other tide,
A word well known, both far and wide:
'Who mixeth with a fool, I ween,
He cometh never from him clean.'
Dost think the hawk the worse shall be
When marsh-crows scold him angrily,
And follow on his track in might
As they were fain with him to fight?
The hawk good counsel takes thereby,
He goes his way, and lets them cry.
But now thou say'st another thing;
Dost tell me that I cannot sing,
My song shall naught but wailing be,
Grisley to hear, in veritie.
That is not true, full oft I sing
Full loud, my voice doth clearly ring,
All songs thine ear as grisley strike
That be not to thy piping like.
My voice is bold, not weak to hear,
As a great horn it ringeth clear;
But thine is like a feeble pipe,
Blown thro' a reed, green, and unripe.
Better I sing than thou at best,
As Irish priest thou chatterest;
I sing at eve, when day is sped,
I sing when men should seek their bed,
I sing again when 't is midnight,
And so my song is fitly dight
Whenas I see to rise afar
The daybreak, or the morning star.
Thus with my throat much good I win,
And men much profit find therein.
But thou dost sing the live-long night
From even, to the morning light,
And dost repeat that self-same song
Unceasing, thro' the whole night long.
Dost crow thy wretched cry alway
That never ceaseth, night nor day,
But with thy pipe, I trow thee well,
Dost din men's ears, who near thee dwell,
Until thy song doth worthless grow
And men no joy therein may know.
For mirth, I ween, so long may last
That all its pleasure be o'erpast;
And harp and pipe, and birdling's song
Mislike men, if they last o'er long.
Nor shall thy song so joyful be
But one shall deem it misery
If he must hearken 'gainst his will —
So shall thy song be wasted still.
Alfred, he spake the sooth indeed,
As one in book right well may read:
'All things may lose their goodliness
Thro' lack of measure, and excess.'
With pleasure thou may'st satiate,
And over-fullness breedeth hate;
Each joy to weariness shall tend
If it continue without end,
Save one, that is God's Kingdom meet,
Ever the same, and ever sweet;
Take without ceasing from that store,
'T is ever full, and running o'er,
God's Kingdom is a wonder sure
That aye shall spend, and aye endure.

"Thou puttest on me other shame;
Thou say'st, I in mine eyes be lame;
Thou say'st, in that I fly by night
'T is that I cannot see in light.
Thou liest! It may well be seen
That I have sight both good and keen,
For there be never duskiness
In which I e'er may see the less.
Thou deem'st, I cannot see with eye
Therefore by day I do not fly;
The hare all day shall hidden be
Natheless the hare right well can see,
And should hounds chance to run his way
Full swift he flies from them away;
And many a narrow path doth take,
And many a twist and turn doth make,
And fares with many a bound and leap,
So to the groves his way doth keep.
For both his eyes so never he
Would do, if that he might not see.
Well as the hare I see, methinks,
Tho' thro' the day I sit, and blink.
The valiant man, who beareth shield,
And, near and far, doth fare afield,
Thro' many a land his way doth take
And doth by night good progress make;
Follow these valiant men will I,
And with their band by night will fly."

The Nightingale, within her thought
She pondered this, and long she sought
What she thereafter best might say,
Since she in no wise might gainsay
That which the Owl had said, indeed,
For that she spake both right, and rede.
In sooth she deemed she so had sped,
Their speech to such a point had led,
She needs must fear right ill to fare
Nor true and fitting answer bear.
Natheless, she spake out valiantly
For he is wise, who, hardily,
Doth make good face against his foe,
Nor cause thro' cowardice doth forego.
For they wax bold, an thou shalt flee,
Who 'ld fly didst thou fight valiantly,
For, if he see thee bold, straightway,
Your boar 's a barrow pig, i' fay
And therefore, tho' full sore afraid,
The Nightingale a brave show made.
She quoth: "Now, Owl, I prithee say,
Why sing in winter, 'Wellaway'?
"Thou sing'st as doth a hen in snow,
All that she singeth is for woe;
In winter thou dost cry, and wail,
In summer-time thy song doth fail.
'T is for foul envy thou, alway,
With other birds wilt not be gay.
For jealousy dost burn, I wis,
Whenas our bale be turned to bliss;
Thou dost as evil men do still,
All gladness is against thy will;
To frown, and grudge, that is their way,
Whenas that other men be gay.
The envious would ever spy
Salt tears in this, his neighbour's, eye,
Nor recks he tho' their flocks shall fare
In wild confusion, head, and hair.
So is thy custom, at this tide,
For, when the snow lies thick and wide
And every man goes sorrowing,
Then thou from eve to morn dost sing.
But I, with me I bring all bliss,
My song rejoiceth all, I wis,
Men bless the day they hear my voice,
And at my coming all rejoice.
Blossom and leaf again are seen
On bough of tree, on meadow green;
The lily beauteous doth blow
To welcome me, I 'ld have ye know,
And by her fairness doth invite
That I, to her, shall wing my flight.
The rose, that blusheth red, I trow,
And springeth from the thorney bough,
She biddeth me to sing alway
For love of her, a roundelay.
And so I do, by night, by day,
The more I sing, the more I may.
And thus I please them with my song,
That, natheless, lasteth not o'erlong,
For when I see that men be glad
Naught would I do to make them sad,
When I have done what hither brought
My flight, I fare, by wisdom taught.
For when man thinketh on the sheaf,
And yellow hues come on the leaf,
I say, Farewell, and hence I go —
Naught do I reck of winter's woe,
For when hard times I needs must see
I get me home right speedily.
Thus love and thanks I ever know,
In that I come, and that I go.
Once I have done my work, then say,
Why should I bide, and wherefore? Nay,
I hold him no wise man, indeed,
Who lingers where there is no need!"