He must needs waste away, whatever he swore, Who hath not a hood his own head to hide. Thus will walks in the land, and law is no more, And picked from the poor is the persecutor's pride. Thus they pillage the poor and pick them all clean, And the rich men are ruling without any right; Their lands and their people all lie very lean, Through demands of the bailiffs such sorrows alight. Men of religion[57] are abject and mean As are baron and bondman,[58] the clerk and the knight. Thus will walks in the land and sorrow is seen, Falsehood grows fat and mars all with his might. He stands still in a spot and shows a stern soul, Who makes beggars wander with long staves and bags; Thus we are hunted from hall and from hole, And those who wore robes are now wearing rags. And then come the beadles[59] with many a boast: "Supply me with silver for the green wax,[60] Thou art set down in my writ as thou thyself know'st," Yet more than ten times have I paid my tax. Then I must furnish hens for the roast, And fairly, each fish day, have lamprey and lax.[61] If I go to the market, I lose, at the most, Though I sell my bill[62] and my big axe. I may place my pledge well if I will, Or sell my corn when it's green as the grass; Yet I am a foul churl, though they have their fill; What I've saved all the year I must spend at this pass. Needs must I spend what I've saved from of yore, Against the coming of catchpoles I must take care; The master beadle comes in like a brutish boar And says he will make my dwelling all bare, So then I must bribe him, with one mark or more, Although I at the set day should sell my own mare; Thus the green wax grieves us neath our garments poor, So that men hunt us as hound does the hare. They hunt us as hound does a hare on a hill; Since I took to the land such woe I've been taught. The beadles have never had quite all their fill, For they slip away, and it's we who are caught. Thus I catch and I carry cares that are cold, Since I have had cottage and reckoning to keep. To seek silver for the king, my seed I have sold, And my land has lain fallow and learned how to sleep. Since they took my fair cattle away from the fold, When I think of old joys I am ready to weep; Thus are bred so many of these beggars bold, And our rye is rotten and rank ere we reap. Rank is our rye and rotten in the straw, Because of foul weather by brook and by shore; Thus wakes in this world the worst woe men e'er saw, As well waste all away, as work thus evermore. Translated by M. H. S. SIR PENNY[63]