A good man of religion was with us
A parish priest, and impecunious,
But he was rich in faith and charity,
And a great scholar of theology.
When preaching, the truth of Christ's gospel would tell.
He taught his whole flock most devoutly and well.
Benign and conscientious as can be
He was all patience in adversity,
As was all too often proved in his life.
He hated to force men to pay their tithe
By excommunication, preferring
To give to the poor from the offering
Made at Easter or what else he might own,
Himself content to live simply at home.
His parish was wide with houses far spread
Yet though it rained and thundered round his head
He would still visit the sick, sad and sore,
However far and whether rich or poor,
Walking the whole way, his staff in his hand.
He was an example to every man
For he did a thing first and then preached it.
In the gospel he had found that wise bit
And had added to it this sage question,
"If gold rusts, what hope is there for iron?"
For if a priest is bad, who we should trust
No wonder that the common man will rust.
Now here's an image should make a priest weep
A shit covered shepherd and a clean sheep;
For by his cleanliness a priest should give
To his sheep, a model of how to live.
He would not rent his living to another,
To leave his poor sheep all mired in bother
And run up to London, up to St. Paul's
To be a paid chanter for rich men's souls
Or to be retained by some brotherhood;
But guarded his own home fold, as he should
So that no wolf could make things miscarry.
He was a shepherd and not a mercenary.
And though he was holy and virtuous,
He would never despise the unrighteous
Nor was he arrogant or cruel in speech
But kind and careful when he had to teach.
To draw folk to heaven by his fairness,
By good example, this was his business.
Yet if any person were obdurate,
Whether he was of low or high estate,
He would upbraid him firmly at that time.
Nowhere on earth is there a priest more fine.
He looked for no great pomp or reverence,
Nor was his conscience primed to seek offence,
For he taught the law of Christ and his twelve
He taught, but first he followed it himself.
Along with the priest, his brother had come,
A Ploughman who'd spread cartloads of dung;
A diligent and honest worker, he
Lived in peace and perfect charity.
At all times loved God best with his whole heart,
Should good fortune come or should it depart,
And as himself did he love his neighbour.
For he would thresh, dig, do any labour
For Christ's sake, for any poor man in need,
Not wanting pay, if he could do the deed.
He paid his tithes in full with willing mind,
By giving both work due and goods in kind.
Wearing a smock, he rode upon a mare.
A good man was ther of religioun,
And was a povre Persoun of a Toun,
But riche he was of hooly thoght and werk.
He was also a lerned man, a clerk,
That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche;
His parisshens devoutly wolde he teche.
Benynge he was, and wonder diligent,
And in adversitee ful pacient,
And swich he was ypreved ofte sithes.
Ful looth were hym to cursen for his tithes,
But rather wolde he yeven, out of doute,
Unto his povre parisshens aboute
Of his offryng and eek of his substaunce.
He koude in litel thyng have suffisaunce.
Wyd was his parisshe, and houses fer asonder,
But he ne lefte nat, for reyn ne thonder,
In siknesse nor in meschief to visite
The ferreste in his parisshe, muche and lite,
Upon his feet, and in his hand a staf.
This noble ensample to his sheep he yaf,
That first he wroghte, and afterward he taughte.
Out of the gosple he tho wordes caughte,
And this figure he added eek therto,
That if gold ruste, what shal iren do?
For if a preest be foul, on whom we truste,
No wonder is a lewed man to ruste;
And shame it is, if a prest take keep,
A shiten shepherde and a clene sheep.
Wel oghte a preest ensample for to yive,
By his clennesse, how that his sheep sholde lyve.
He sette nat his benefice to hyre
And leet his sheep encombred in the myre
And ran to Londoun unto Seinte Poules
To seken hym a chaunterie for soules,
Or with a bretherhed to been witholde;
But dwelt at hoom, and kepte wel his folde,
So that the wolf ne made it nat myscarie;
He was a shepherde and noght a mercenarie.
And though he hooly were and vertuous,
He was to synful men nat despitous,
Ne of his speche daungerous ne digne,
But in his techyng discreet and benygne;
To drawen folk to hevene by fairnesse,
By good ensample, this was his bisynesse.
But it were any persone obstinat,
What so he were, of heigh or lough estat,
Hym wolde he snybben sharply for the nonys.
A bettre preest I trowe, that nowher noon ys.
He waited after no pompe and reverence,
Ne maked him a spiced conscience,
But Cristes loore, and Hise apostles twelve
He taughte, but first he folwed it hymselve.
With hym ther was a Plowman, was his brother,
That hadde ylad of dong ful many a fother;
A trewe swynkere and a good was he,
Lyvynge in pees and parfit charitee.
God loved he best with al his hoole herte
At alle tymes, thogh him gamed or smerte.
And thanne his neighebor right as hym-selve.
He wolde thresshe, and therto dyke and delve,
For Cristes sake, for every povre wight
Withouten hire, if it lay in his myght.
Hise tithes payed he ful faire and wel,
Bothe of his propre swynk and his catel.
In a tabard he rood, upon a mere.