Aneleda Falconbridge

Abowte hyr displayed much gode work there

Se more mervayle by hyr hyne bygynne

Come, Maunche, to maid ful debonere

Þat in alle wyyes we now myght wynne

Christiana Crane, bryght and fayre,

Worthé fraunchyse joye and blysse hereinne.

As glysnande golde that man con schere,

I sette hyr sengely in synglere.

Grant heo armes, azure, a crane

in vigilance argent and a tierce ermine

and wel singe hyr dede once agayn.
Perle, plesaunte to prynces paye

Wordes clanly clos in golde so clere;

Oute of oryent, I hardyly saye.

Ne proved I never her precios pere.

Quere-so-ever one jugged letters gaye,

So smal, so smothe her hyne were,

So fyne, so reken in uche araye.

At Birka in the winter market chere

in society’s fiftieth yere

Þirty days in January it was seen,

whene set þeir names in fine ink here

did Brennan King and Caoilfhionn Queen.

about her displayed much good work there

see more marvels by her hand begun

Come, Maunch, to this gracious maid,

that in all ways we might now win

Christiana Crane, bright and fair,

worthy franchise will have joy and bliss herein.

As glistens gold that man has wrought

I set her worth as truly rare

grant her arms, azure a crane

in its vigilance argent and a tierce ermine

and sing well of her deeds once again.
Pearl, to delight a prince’s day,

Words flawlessly set in gold so fair

In all the East, I dare to say,

I have not found one to compare.

Wherever one judged letters gay

So small, so smooth her hands were,

So fine, so radiant in array.

At Birka in the winter market cheer

in society’s fiftieth year

thirty days in January it was seen,

whene set their names in fine ink here

did Brennan King and Caoilfhionn Queen.

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To clanly clos in golde so clere;

Oute of oryent, I hardyly saye.

Ne proved I never her precios pere.

So rounde, so reken in uche araye,

So smal, so smothe her sydes were,

Quere-so-ever I jugged gemmes gaye,

I sette hyr sengely in synglere.

Allas! I leste hyr in on erbere;

Thurgh gresse to ground hit fro me yot,

I dewyne, fordolked of luf-daungere

Of that pryvy perle wythouten spot.

Wordes clanly clos in golde so clere;

Oute of oryent, I hardyly saye.

Ne proved I never her precios pere.

So fine, so reken in uche araye,

So smal, so smothe her letters were,

I sette hyr sengely in synglere.

Flawlessly set in gold so fair

In all the East, I dare to say,

I have not found one to compare.

So round, so radiant in array,

So small, so smooth her contours were,

Wherever I judged jewels gay

I set her worth as truly rare.

I lost her in a garden where

Through grass she fell to earthen plot;

Wounded by love beyond repair

I mourn that pearl without a spot.

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Abowte hyr displayed much gode work there

Se more mervayle by hyr hyne bygynne

Come, Maunche, to maid ful debonere

Than in alle wyyes we now myght wynne

Christiana Crane, bryght and fayre,

Oure fraunchyse joye and blysse hereinne.

As glysnande golde that man con schere,

I sette hyr sengely in synglere.

Grant heo armes, azure, a crane

in vigilance argent and a tierce ermine

and wel singe hyr dede once agayn.
Perle, plesaunte to prynces paye

Wordes clanly clos in golde so clere;

Oute of oryent, I hardyly saye.

Ne proved I never her precios pere.

So fine, so reken in uche araye,

So smal, so smothe her hyne were,

Quere-so-ever one jugged letters gaye.

At Birka in the winter market chere

in society’s fiftieth yere

thirty days in January it was seen,

whene set their names in fine ink here

did Brennan King and Caoilfhionn Queen.

More haf I of joye and blysse hereinne,

Than alle the wyyes in the worlde myght wynne

Whether welnygh now I con bygynne-

Fyrst of my hyre swete Maunche con mynne:

First off, the Maunche that evening welcomed me

‘Deme3 þou me’, quod I, ‘my swete,

To dol agayn, þenne I dowyne.

Now haf I fonte þat I forlete,

Schal I efte forgo hit er euer I fyne?

Why schal I hit boþe mysse and mete?

My precios perle dot3 me gret pyne.

What serue3 tresor, bot gare3 men grete

When he hit schal efte wyth tene3 tyne?

Now rech I neuer for to declyne,

Ne how fer of folde þat man me fleme.

When I am partle3 of perle myne,
“Þat date of 3ere wel knawe þys hyne.

Þe lorde ful erly vp he ros

To hyre werkmen to hys vyne,

And fynde3 þer summe to hys porpos.

Into acorde þay con declyne

For a pené on a day, and forth þay got3,

Wryþen and worchen and don gret pyne,

Keruen and caggen and man hit clos.

Aboute vnder þe lorde to marked tot3,

And ydel men stande he fynde3 þerate.

‘Why stande 3e ydel?’ he sayde to þos.

‘Ne knawe 3e of þis day no date?’

Words flawlessly set in gold so fair

In all the East, I dare to say,

I have not found one to compare.

So fine, so radiant in array,

So small, so smooth her contours were,

Wherever I judged jewels gay

Like gold that craftsmen work upon

I set her worth as truly rare.

The gilt and gall know well this hand

Like gold that craftsmen work upon
More courtly maiden there was none.

Than all the world could e’er profess

so sing well of her deed and thought again.

The lady  ful erly up he ros

To hyre werkmen to hys vyne,

And fyndes ther summe to hys porpos

To pen

That lord full early up arose

To hire men, and commandeer

Their labour; and he hires those

Vered up her vyse wyth yyen graye,

Set on hyr coroun ot perle orient,

And soberly after thenne con ho say:

‘Sir, ye hat your tale mysetente,

To say your perle is al awaye,

That is in cofer so comly elente

As in this gardyn gracios gaye,

Hereinne to lenge for ever and play,

Ther tnys ne mornyng com never nere.

Her were a forser for the, in faye,

If thou were a gentyl jueler.’

Lifted to me those eyes of grey,

And donned her crown, of jewels made,

And gravely then I heard her say:

‘Sir, your conclusion is mislaid

To say your pearl has fled away,

That is in such a casket laid

As in this gracious garden gay,

To dwell in joy in endless day;

Never can loss or grief come near.

No pearl in such a casket lay,

‘Twould seem, for any jeweller

I sey byyonde that myry mere

A crystal clyffe ful relusaunt;

Mony ryal ray con fro hit rere.

At the fote therof ther sete a faunt,

A mayden of menske, ful debonere;

Blysnande whyt was hyr bleaunt.

I knew hyr wel, I hade sen hyr ere.

As glysnande golde that man con schere,

So schon that schene anunder shore,

On lenghe I loked to hyr there;

The lenger, I knew hyr more and more.

I looked and saw yet more anon,

A crystal cliff resplendent there

With royal rays of splendour shone;

And at its foot a child so fair

More courtly maiden there was none.

A gleaming mantle she did wear;

I knew her well from times long gone,

Like gold that craftsmen work upon

So shone that maid upon that shore,

And long my eyes did linger on

That maid, and knew her more and more.

That fryth ther fortwne forth me feres.

The derthe therof for to devyse

Nis no wyy worthé that tonge beres.

I welke ay forth in wely wyse;

No bonk so byg that did me deres.

The fyrre in the fryth, the feier con ryse

The playn, the plonttes, the spyse, the peres,

The rawes and randes and rych reveres –

As fyldor fyn her bonkes brent.

I wan to a water by schore that scheres;

Lorde, der was hit adubbement !

The wood where fortune smiled on me,

The glory thereof to portray

No man could render worthily.

I wandered joyful on my way;

No height could do me injury.

As through the woods my footsteps stray

Field, shrub, and spice, and each pear-tree,

Hedgerow and stream and banks I see

Like gold thread shines each wooded height;

I came to a streamlet running free;

Lord, glorious was that splendour bright !

Garten my goste al greffe foryete.

So frech flavores of frytes were,

As fode hit con me fayre refete.

Fowles ther flowen in fryth in fere,

Of flaumbande hwes, both smale and grete.

Bot sytole-stryng and gyternere

Her reken myrthe moght not retrete;

Fir quen those bryddes her wynges bete,

Thay songen wyth a swete asent.

So gracios gle couthe no mon gete

As here and se her adubbement.

My spirit freed from my side fate;

Refreshing was the fragrance clear

Of fruits, as though of food I ate;

Birds flew in all the woodland near

Of myriad hue, both small and great,

Cytole and cithern none could hear

To match a sound so delicate;

The notes their wing-beats did create

Made sounds of such sweet delight

Such charm no man could fabricate,

As here in all their splendour bright.