The Friar

There was a Friar, relaxed and merry,
An alms gatherer and an earnest one.
No friar of any kind has yet begun
To equal his sweet honeyed dalliance.
With his own money he had paid for the chance
For many girls to wed, had gone to great length...
In his order he was a pillar of strength.

He was a fond and familiar face
To rich landowners all over the place
And to the worthy women of the town
Because with him they could let their hair down
And confess some of the sins which I fear
Were rather too great for the curate to hear.

It was so kind, his taking of confession
So pleasant, his granting absolution:
The penance which he gave was just as light
As they were generous, who saw the right
Thing for the penitent to do, was give
To this poor man's order, that he might live.
And if they gave well, the friar would swear,
That this showed a true repentance was there.
For many have such a stiff upper lip
They still cannot weep though in sorrow's grip.
Yet a man, though not a prayer or crier,
Could instead give silver to his poor friar.

His hood was always well stuffed full of knives
And pins, useful nick-nacks to please young wives.
He made a merry sound, for truth to tell
He sung and also played the fiddle well.
At singing love songs he would win outright,
His neck it may be said was lily white,
Also for strength he took the champion's crown.

He knew the taverns well in every town
Each pretty barmaid there and publican
Better than any leper or beggar man.
Since for such a worthy one as he was
To mix with poor people was wrong because,
To have contact with this lame-dog rabble
Must lower esteem, for those who will dabble
In dirt, are dragged down and may not advance -
With the rich one stands a much better chance.
And when some profit lay on the table
He was polite and modest and able.

There never was a man, nowhere, so good.
He begged alms better than anyone could.
Even a widow in bare foot poverty,
Because he read from John so pleasantly,
Would give him a parting farthing for his pains.
He made more by cunning than by honest gains.
He rampaged around like a regular whelp,
Yet as arbiter could be a great help,
For he wasn't like some poor cloister dweller
With a threadbare cloak, an ill-kempt scholar,
More like some learned Master, or the Pope!
Made from double worsted, his semi-cope
Was rounded out, just like a new cast bell.
He affected a distinct lisp as well
To make his English sweet upon his tongue.
Performing music, after he had sung,
His eyes would twinkle in his head as bright
As all the stars do on a frosty night.
Hubert, this worthy friar was called I knew.

A Frere ther was, a wantowne and a merye,
A lymytour, a ful solempne man.
In alle the ordres foure is noon that kan
So muchel of daliaunce and fair langage.
He hadde maad ful many a mariage
Of yonge wommen at his owene cost.
Unto his ordre he was a noble post.

And wel biloved and famulier was he
With frankeleyns overal in his contree,
And eek with worthy wommen of the toun;
For he hadde power of confessioun,
As seyde hymself, moore than a curat,
For of his ordre he was licenciat.

Ful swetely herde he confessioun,
And plesaunt was his absolucioun:
He was an esy man to yeve penaunce,
Ther as he wiste to have a good pitaunce.
For unto a povre ordre for to yive
Is signe that a man is wel yshryve;
For, if he yaf, he dorste make avaunt,
He wiste that a man was repentaunt;
For many a man so harde is of his herte,
He may nat wepe, al thogh hym soore smerte;
Therfore in stede of wepynge and preyeres
Men moote yeve silver to the povre freres.

His typet was ay farsed ful of knyves
And pynnes, for to yeven yonge wyves.
And certeinly he hadde a murye note:
Wel koude he synge, and pleyen on a rote;
Of yeddynges he baar outrely the pris.
His nekke whit was as the flour-de-lys;
Therto he strong was as a champioun.

He knew the tavernes wel in every toun
And everich hostiler and tappestere
Bet than a lazar or a beggestere;
For unto swich a worthy man as he
Acorded nat, as by his facultee,
To have with sike lazars aqueyntaunce.
It is nat honeste, it may nat avaunce,
For to deelen with no swich poraille,
But al with riche and selleres of vitaille.
And over al, ther as profit sholde arise,
Curteis he was, and lowely of servyse.

Ther nas no man nowher so vertuous.
He was the beste beggere in his hous.
For thogh a wydwe hadde noght a sho,
So plesaunt was his "In principio"
Yet wolde he have a ferthyng, er he wente;
His purchas was wel bettre than his rente.
And rage he koude, as it were right a whelp.
In love-dayes ther koude he muchel help,
For there he was nat lyk a cloysterer
With a thredbare cope, as is a povre scoler,
But he was lyk a maister or a pope;
Of double worstede was his semycope,
That rounded as a belle out of the presse.
Somwhat he lipsed for his wantownesse
To make his Englissh sweete upon his tonge;
And in his harpyng, whan that he hadde songe,
Hise eyen twynkled in his heed aryght
As doon the sterres in the frosty nyght.
This worthy lymytour was cleped Huberd.