The next song is a lament for the decay of the Order and the suppression of its privileges. It was written, to all appearances, at a later date, and is inferior in style. The Goliardi had already, we learn from it, exchanged poverty for luxury. Instead of tramping on the hard hoof, they moved with a retinue of mounted servants. We seem to trace in the lament a change from habits of simple vagabondage to professional dependence, as minstrels and secretaries, upon men of rank in Church and State, which came over the Goliardic class. This poem, it may be mentioned, does not occur in the _Carmina Burana_, nor is it included among those which bear the name of Walter Mapes or Map. ON THE DECAY OF THE ORDER. No. 2. Once (it was in days of yore) This our order flourished; Popes, whom Cardinals adore, It with honours nourished; Licences desirable They gave, nought desiring; While our prayers, the beads we tell, Served us for our hiring. Now this order (so time runs) Is made tributary; With the ruck of Adam's sons We must draw and carry; Ground by common serfdom down, By our debts confounded, Debts to market-place and town With the Jews compounded. Once ('twas when the simple state Of our order lasted) All men praised us, no man's hate Harried us or wasted; Rates and taxes on our crew There was none to levy; But the sect, douce men and true, Served God in a bevy. Now some envious folks, who spy Sumptuous equipages, Horses, litters passing by, And a host of pages, Say, "Unless their purses were Quite with wealth o'erflowing, They could never thus, I swear, Round about be going!" Such men do not think nor own How with toil we bend us, Not to feed ourselves alone, But the folk who tend us: On all comers, all who come, We our substance lavish, Therefore 'tis a trifling sum For ourselves we ravish. On this subject, at this time, What we've said suffices: Let us leave it, lead the rhyme Back to our devices: We the miseries of this life Bear with cheerful spirit, That Heaven's bounty after strife We may duly merit. 'Tis a sign that God the Lord Will not let us perish, Since with scourge and rod and sword He our souls doth cherish; He amid this vale of woes Makes us bear the burden, That true joys in heaven's repose May be ours for guerdon.