Poem of the Week

The Tournament of Tottenham

Of all thes kene conquerours to carpe it were kynde,
Of fele feghtyng folk ferly we fynde,
The turnament of Totenham have we in mynde.
It were harme sych hardynes were holden byhynde,
In story as we rede,
Of Hawkyn, of Herry,
Of Tomkyn, of Terry,
Of them that were dughty
And stalworth in dede.

It befel in Totenham on a dere day
Ther was mad a schartyng be tho hy-way.
Theder com al the men of tho contray,
Of Hyssylton, of Hygatte, and of Hakenay,
And all the swete swynkers.
Ther hepped Hawkyn,
Ther daunsed Dawkyn,
Ther trumped Tomkyn -
And all were trewe drynkers -

Tyl the day was gon and evynsong past
That thay schuld rekyn ther scot and ther contes cast.
Perkyn tho potter into tho press past,
And sayd: "Rondol tho refe, a doghter thu hast,
Tyb the dere.
Therfor wyt wold I
Whych of all thys bachelery
Were best worthy
To wed hur to hys fere."

Up styrt thos gadelyngys with ther long staves,
And sayd: "Rondol tho refe, lo, thos lad raves!
Baldely amang us thy doghter he craves,
And we er rycher men then he and more god haves
Of catell and corn."
Then sayd Perkyn to Tybbe: "I have hyght
That I schal be alway redy in my ryght,
If that it schuld be thys day sevenyght,
Or ellis yet to-morn."

Then sayd Randolfe the refe: "Ever be he waryed
That about thys carpyng lenger wold be taryed!
I wold not my doghter that scho were myscaryed,
But at hur most worschyp I wold scho were maryed.
Therfor a turnament schal begyn
Thys day sevenyght,
With a flayl for to fyght.
And that ys of most myght
Schall brouke hur with wynne.

Whoso berys hym best in the turnament,
Hym schull be granted the gre be the comon assent,
For to wynne my doghter with dughtyness of dent,
And Coppeld, my brode henne, was broght out of Kent,
And my donnyd kowe.
For no spens wyl I spare,
For no catell wyl I care:
He schal have my gray mare
And my spottyd sowe."

Ther was many bold lad ther bodyes to bede.
Than thay toke thayr leve and homward thay yede,
And all the woke afterward thay graythed ther wede,
Tyll it come to the day that thay suld do ther dede.
Thay armed ham in mattes,
Thay set on ther nollys
(For to kepe ther pollys)
Gode blake bollys,
For batryng of battes.

Thay sowed tham in schepe-skynnes for thay suld not brest;
Ilkon toke a blak hat insted of a crest,
A harow brod as a fanne aboune on ther brest,
And a flayle in ther hande for to fyght prest;
Furth gone thay fare,
Ther was kyd mekyl fors
Who schuld best fond hys cors.
He that had no gode hors
He gat hym a mare.

Sych another gadryng have I not sene oft!
When all the gret company com rydand to the croft
Tyb on a gray mare was set upon loft,
On a sek ful of federys for scho schuld syt soft,
And led hur to tho gap.
For cryeng of al the men
Forther wold not Tyb then,
Tyl scho had hur gode brode-hen
Set in hur lap.

A gay gyrdyl Tyb had on, borwed for the nonys,
And a garland on hur hed, ful of rounde bonys,
And a broche on hur brest, ful of safer stonys,
With tho haly rode tokenyng was wretyn for tho nonys;
No catel was ther spared.7
When joly Gyb saw hur thare,
He gyrd so hys gray mere
That sche lete a faucon fare
At the rereward.

"I vowe to God," quod Herry, "I schal not lefe behende!
May I mete with Bernard on Bayard tho blynde
Ich man kepe hym out of my wynde,
For what-so-ever that he be befor me I fynde,
I wot I schul hym greve."
"Wele sayd," quod Hawkyn,
"And I avow," quod Dawkyn,
"May I mete with Tomkyn
Hys flayl I schal hym refe."

"I vow to God," quod Hud, "Tyb, sone schal thu se
Whych of all this bachelery grant is tho gre.
I schal scomfet thaym all for tho love of thee,
In what place so I come thay schul have dout of me!
Myn armes ar so clere:
I bere a reddyl and a rake,
Poudred with a brenand drake,
And thre cantells of a cake
In ych a cornare."

"I vow to God," quod Hawkyn, "yf I have the gowt,
Al that I fynde in tho felde presand here aboute,
Have I twyes or thryes redyn thurgh the route,
In ych a stede ther thay me se of me thay schal have doute
When I begyn to play.
I make a vow that I ne schall
(But yf Tybbe wyl me call
Or I be thryes doun fall)
Ryght onys com away."

Then sayd Terry and swore be hys crede:
"Saw thu never yong boy forther hys body bede!
For when thay fyght fastest and most ar in drede,
I schal take Tyb by tho hand and hur away lede!
I am armed at the full;
In myn armys I bere wele
A dogh trogh and a pele,
A sadyll withouten a panell,
With a fles of woll."

"I vow to God," quod Dudman, and swor be the stra,
"Whyls me ys left my mere thu getis hur not swa;
For scho ys wele schapen and lyght as the ro,
Ther ys no capul in thys myle befor hur schal go.
Sche wil me noght begyle:
She wyl me bere, I dar wele say,
On a lang somerys day,
Fro Hyssylton to Hakenay,
Noght other half myle."

"I vow to God," quod Perkyn, "thu spekis of cold rost.
I schal wyrch wyselyer, withouten any bost:
Fyve of tho best capullys that ar in thys ost,
I wot I schal thaym wynne and bryng thaym to my cost,
And here I grant tham Tybbe.
Wele, boyes, here ys he
That wyl fyght and not fle,
For I am in my jolyté
With jo for to gybbe."

When thay had ther vowes made, furth gan they hye,
With flayles and hornes and trumpes mad of tre.
Ther were all the bachelerys of that contré;
Thay were dyght in aray as tham selfe wold be.
Thayr baners were ful bryght,
Of an old raton fell;
The cheverone of a plow-mell
And tho schadow of a bell,
Poudred with mone-lyght.

I wot it ys no chyldergame whan thay togedyr met,
When ich a freke in tho feld on hys felay bet,
And layd on styfly, for nothyng wold thay let,
And faght ferly fast tyll ther horses swet,
And fewe wordys spoken.
Ther were flayles al to-slatred,
Ther were scheldys al to-flatred,
Bollys and dysches al to-schatred,
And many hedys brokyn.

Ther was clynkyng of cart-sadellys and clattiryng of connes;
Of fele frekis in tho feld brokyn were ther fannes.
Of sum were the hedys brokyn, of sum tho brayn panes,
And yll ware they be-seyn or thay went thens
With swyppyng of swepyllys.
The boyes were so wery for-fught
That thay myght not fyght mare oloft,
But creped then abaut in the croft,
As they were croked crepyls.

Perkyn was so wery that he began to loute:
"Help, Hud, I am ded in thys ylk rowte!
A hors for forty pens, a gode and a stoute,
That I may lyghtly come of my noye out,
For no cost wyl I spare."
He styrt up as a snayle,
And hent a capul be tho tayle,
And raght Dawkyn hys flayle,
And wan ther a mare.

Perkyn wan fyve and Hud wan twa.
Glad and blythe thay ware that thay had don sa;
Thay wold have tham to Tyb and present hur with tha.
The capull were so wery that thay myght not ga,
But styl gon thay stand.
"Allas," quod Hudde, "my joye I lese.
Me had lever then a ston of chese
That dere Tyb had al these,
And wyst it were my sand."

Perkyn turnyd hym about in that ych thrange;
Among thos wery boyes he wrest and he wrang.
He threw tham doun to tho erth and thrast thaim amang,
When he saw Tyrry away with Tyb fang,
And after hym ran.
Of hys hors he hym drogh
And gaf hym of hys flayl inogh.
"We te-he!" quod Tyb, and lugh,
"Ye er a dughty man!"

Thus thay tugged and rugged tyl yt was nere nyght.
All the wyves of Totenham come to se that syght,
With wyspes and kexis and ryschys ther lyght,
To fech hom ther husbandes that were tham trouth-plyght.
And sum broght gret harwes
Ther husbandes hom for to fech,
Sum on dores and sum on hech,
Som on hyrdyllys and som on crech,
And sum on welebaraws.

Thay gaderyd Perkyn about everych syde,
And grant hym ther the gre, the more was hys pride.
Tyb and he with gret myrthe homward con thay ryde,
And were al nyght togedyr tyl the morntyde,
And thay in fere assent.
So wele hys nedys he has sped
That dere Tyb he had wed.
The pryse folk that hur led
Were of the tornament.

To that ylk fest com many for the nones;
Some come hyphalt and sum tryppand on the stonys,
Sum a staf in hys hand and sum two at onys,
Of sum were the hedys broken, and sum tho schulder-bonys;
With sorow com thay thedyr.
Wo was Hawkyn, wo was Herry,
Wo was Tomkyn, wo was Terry,
And so was al the bachelary,
When thay met togedyr.

At that fest thay were servyd with a ryche aray,
Ever fyve and fyve had a cokenay.
And so thay sat in jolyté al the lang day,
And at the last thay went to bed with ful gret deray.
Mekyl myrth was them amang,
In every corner of the hous
Was melody delycyous,
For to here precyus,
Of six menys sang.