from _THE_BOOK_OF_PHILIP_SPARROW_ John Skelton c. 1508 ========================================= . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . For the soul of Philip Sparrow That was late slain at Carrow, Among the Nunne`s Black. For that sweet soule`s sake, And for all sparrows' souls, Set in our bead-rolls, _Pater_noster_qui,_ With an _Ave_Mari,_ And with the corner of a Creed, The more shall be your meed. When I remember again How my Philip was slain, Never half the pain Was between you twain, Pyramus and Thisbe, As then befell to me. I wept and I wailed, The teare`s down hailed, But nothing it availed To call Philip again Whom Gib, our cat, hath slain. Gib, I say, our cat, Worried her on that Which I love`d best. It cannot be exprest My sorrowful heaviness, But all without redress! For within that stound, Half slumbering, in a sound I fell down to the ground. Unneth I cast mine eyes Toward the cloudy skies. But when I did behold My sparrow dead and cold, No creature but that would Have rue`d upon me, To behold and see What heaviness did me pang: Wherewith my hands I wrang, That my sinews cracked, As though I had been racked, So pained and so strained That no life wellnigh remained. I sighed and I sobbed, For that I was robbed Of my sparrow's life. O maiden, widow, and wife, Of what estate ye be, Of high or low degree, Greta sorrow then ye might see, And learn to weep at me! Such pains did me fret That mine heart did beat, My visage pale and dead, Wan, and blue as lead: the pangs of hateful death Wellnigh had stopped my breath. (7-63) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Like Andromach, Hector's wife, Was weary of her life, When she had lost her joy, Noble Hector of Troy; In like manner also` Increaseth my deadly woe, For my sparrow is go. It was so pretty a fool, It would sit on a stool, And learned after my school For to keep his cut, With 'Philip, keep your cut!' It had a velvet cap, And would sit upon my lap And seek after small worms, And sometime white bread-crumbs; And many times and oft Between my breaste`s soft It would lie and rest; It was proper and prest. Sometime he would gasp When he saw a wasp; A fly or a gnat, He would fly at that; And prettily he would pant When he saw an ant. Lord, how he would pry After the butterfly! Lord, how he would hop After the gressop! And when I said, 'Phip, Phip!' Then he would leap and skip, And take me by the lip. Alas, it will me slo That Philip is gone me fro! _Si_in_i_qui_ta_tes Alas, I was evil at ease! De_pro_fun_dis_cla_ma_vi,_ When I saw my sparrow die! (108-146) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Requiem Mass _Lauda,_anima_mea,_Dominum!_ To weep with me look that ye come All manner of birde`s in your kind; See none be left behind To mourning look that ye fall With dolorous songs funeral, Some to sing, and some to say, Some to weep, and some to pray, Every bird in his lay. The goldfinch, the wagtail; the jangling jay to rail, The flecke`d pie to chatter Of this dolorous matter; And robin redbreast, He shall be the priest The requiem mass to sing, Softly warbeling, With help of the red-sparrow, And the chattering swallow, This hearse for to hallow; the lark with his long toe; The spink, and the martinet also`; The shoveller with his broad beak; The dotterel, that foolish peke, And also the mad coot, With a bald face to toot; The fieldfare and the snite; The crow and the kite; The raven, called Rolfe`, His plain-song to sol-fa; The partridge, the quail; The plover with us to wail; The woodhack, that singest 'chur' Hoarsely, as he had the mur; The lusty chanting nightingale; The popinjay to tell her tale, That toteth oft in a glass, Shall read the Gospel at mass; The mavis with her whistle Shall read there the Pistle. But with a large and a long To keep just plain-song, Our chanters shall be the cuckoo, The culver, the stockdowe, With 'peewit' the lapwing, The Versicles shall sing. (386-431) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ======== ========