Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.rnVol. I. Early Poetry: Chaucer to Donne

Robert Henryson (1430?–1506?)

The Taill of the Lyoun and the Mous

ANE Lyoun at his pray wery foirrun,

To recreat his limmis and to rest,

Beikand his breist and bellie at the sone,

Under ane tree lay in the fair forrest,

Swa come ane trip of Myis out of thair nest,

Rycht tait and trig, all dansand in ane gyis,

And ouer the Lyoun lansit twyis or thrys.

He lay so still, the Myis wes nocht effeird

Bot to and fro out ouer him tuke thair trace,

Sum tirllit at the campis of his beird,

Sum spairit nocht to claw him on the face;

Merie and glaid, thus dansit thay ane space,

Till at the last the nobill Lyoun woke,

And with his pow the maister Mous he tuke.

Scho gaif ane cry, and all the laif agast

Thair dansing left, and hid thame sone allquhair;

Scho that wes tane, cryit and weipit fast,

And said, Allace! oftymes, that scho come thair;

‘Now am I tane ane wofull presonair,

And for my gilt traistis incontinent,

Of lyfe and deith to thoill the jugement.’

Than spak the Lyoun to that cairfull Mous,

‘Thou cative wretche, and vile unworthie thing,

Ouer malapert, and eik presumpteous

Thow wes, to mak out ouer me thy tripping.

Knew thow nocht weill, I wes baith lord and king

Of Beistis all?’ ‘Yes,’ quod the Mous. ‘I knaw;

But I misknew, because ye lay so law.

‘Lord! I beseik thy kinglie royaltie,

Heir quhat I say, and tak in pacience;

Considder first my simple povertie,

And syne thy mychtie hie magnificence:

See als how thingis done of negligence,

Nouther of malice nor presumptioun,

Erar suld haif grace and remissioun.

‘We wir repleit, and had grit haboundance

Of alkin thingis, sic as to us effeird.

The sweit sesoun provokit us to dance,

And mak sic mirth as Nature to us leird.

Ye lay so still, and law upon the eird,

That, be my saull, we wend ye had bene deid,

Ellis wald we nocht haif dancit ouer your heid.’

‘Thy fals excuse,’ the Lyoun said agane,

‘Sall nocht availl ane myte, I underta:

I put the case, I had bene deid or slane

And syne my skyn bene stoppit full of stra,

Thocht thow had found my figure lyand swa,

Because it bair the prent of my persoun,

Thow suld for feir on knees haif fallin doun.

‘For thy trespas thow sall mak na defence,

My nobill persoun thus to vilipend;

Of thy feiris, nor thy awin negligence,

For to excuse, thow can na cause pretend;

Thairfoir thow suffer sall ane schamefull end,

And deith, sic as to tressoun is decreit,

On to the gallous harlit be the feit’

‘A mercie, Lord! at thy gentrice I ase:

As thow art king of beistis coronat,

Sober thy wraith, and let thy yre ouerpas,

And mak thy mynd to mercy inclynat;

I grant offence is done to thyne estait,

Quhairfoir I worthie am to suffer deid,

Bot gif thy kinglie mercie reik remeid.

‘In everie juge mercy and reuth suld be

As assessouris, and collaterall.

Without mercie Justice is crueltie,

As said is in the Lawis Spirituall;

Quhen rigour sittis in the tribunall,

The equitie of Law quha may sustene?

Richt few or nane, but mercie gang betwene.

Alswa ye knaw the honour triumphall

Of all victour upon the strenth dependis

Of his conqueist, quhilk manlie in battell

Throw jeopardie of weir lang defendis.

Quhat price or loving quhen the battell endis

Is said of him, that ouercummis ane man

Him to defend quhilk nouther may nor can?

‘Ane thousand myis to kill, and eke devoir,

Is lytill manheid to ane strong Lyoun;

Full lytill worschip haif ye wyn thairfoir,

To quhais strenth is na comparisoun:

It will degraid some part of your renoun,

To slay ane Mous quhilk may mak na defence,

Bot askand mercie at your Excellence.

Also, it semis nocht your celsitude,

Quhilk usis daylie meittis delitious,

To syle your teith, or lippis, with my blude,

Quhilk to your stomok is contagious:

Unhailsum meit is of ane sairie Mous,

And that namelie untill ane strang Lyoun

Wont till be fed with gentill vennisoun.

‘My lyfe is lytill worth, my deith is less,

Yet and I leif, I may peradventure

Supple your Hienes beand in destres;

For oft is sene, ane man of small stature

Reskewit hes ane Lord of hie honour,

Keipit that wes in point to be ouerthrawin,

Throw misfortune. Sie cace may be your awin.’

Quhen this was said, the Lyoun his language

Paissit, and thocht according to ressoun,

And gart mercie his cruell yre asswage,

And to the Mous grantit remissioun,

Opinnit his pow, and scho on kneis fell doun,

And baith his handis unto the hevin upheld,

Cryand ‘Almychtie God, mot you foryeild!’

Quhen scho wes gone, the Lyoun held to hunt,

For he had nocht, bot levit on his pray,

And slew baith tayme and wylde, as he wes wont,

And in the cuntrie maid ane greit deray;

Till at the last, the pepill fand the way

This cruell Lyoun how that they mycht tak,

Of hempyn cordis strang nettis couth thay mak.

And in ane rod, quhair he wes wont to ryn,

With raipis rude fra tre to tre it band:

Syne kest ane range on raw the wod within,

With hornis blast, and kennettis fast calland:

The Lyoun fled, and throw the rone rynnand,

Fell in the nett, and hankit fute and heid,

For all his strenth he couth mak na remeid,

Welterand about with hiddeous rummissing,

Quhyles to, quhyles fra, gif he mycht succour get;

Bot all in vane, it vailyeit him na thing,

The mair he flang, the safter wes the net;

The raipis rude wes sa about him plet,

On everilk syde, that succour saw he none,

Bot still lyand, and murnand maid his mone.

‘O lamit Lyoun! liggand heir sa law,

Quhair is the mycht of magnificence?

Of quhome all brutall beistes in eird stude aw,

And dreid to luke upon thy excellence!

But hoip or help, but succour or defence,

In bandis strang heir mon I ly, allace!

Till I be slane—I see nane uther grace.

‘Thair is na wy that will my harmis wreck,

Nor creature do confort to my croun;

Quha sall me bute? quha sall my bandis brek?

Quha sall me put fra pane of this presoun?’—

Be he had mide this lamentatioun,

Throw aventure the lytill Mous come neir,

And of the Lyoun hard the pietuous beir.

And suddandlie it come in till hir mynd

That it suld be the Lyoun did hir grace,

And said, ‘Now were I fals, and richt unkynd,

But gif I quit sum part of thy gentrace

Thow did to me:’ and on this way scho gais

To hir fellowis, and on thame fast can cry,

‘Cum help, cum help;’ and they come all in hy.

‘Lo!’ quod the Mous, ‘this is the samin Lyoun

That grantit grace to me quhen I wes tane;

And now is fast heir bundin in presoun,

Brekand his heart, with sair murning and mane;

Bot we him help, of succour wait he nane;

Cum help to quyte ane gude turne for ane uther;

Go, louse him sone;’—and they said, ‘Yea, gude brother.’

They tuke na knyfe, their teith wes scharp aneuch:

To se that sicht, forsuith it wes greit wonder,

How that thay ran amang the raipis teuch

Befoir, behind, sum yeild about, sum under,

And schuir the raipis of the nett in schunder;

Syne bad him ryse, and he start up anone,

And thankit thame, syne on his way is gone.