A Drinking Song
The thirteenth-century manuscript from the Bavarian monastery of Benediktbeuren is probably the most famous collection of songs from the whole Middle Ages, the Carmina Burana. This is a short Latin drinking song, with motifs encountered in many other sections of this anthology; it is also about gambling, but as a means of obtaining drinking-money.
Carmina Burana
from Poem 194
In the boozer
you’re a loser
if the dice you’re shaking.
You’ll get hurt
and lose your shirt,
sit there cold and quaking.
Lady Luck, your gifts are bad,
you trick us, then you make us mad,
make us gamble, make us fight,
and sit out in the cold all night.
‘Brrr!’ The naked loser moans,
when he’s cold and left alone,
shakes and shivers as he groans:
‘I wish I could be
asleep under a tree
With the hot sunshine warming my bones.’
But now let’s roll the dice again
and win some drinking money!
Who thinks about November’s rain
while it’s still warm and sunny?
Bringing up Children
John Lydgate (ca 1370–1449) may or may not have written the Book of Curteisie, (also known as Stans puer ad mensam – ‘The Boy at Table’) of which there are various fifteenth-century versions. The large number of books and poems on table and social manners in general give an idea, by telling children not to do things, of what people must actually have done on a fairly regular basis. Rampant nose-picking in front of members of the royal family (though ‘sovereign’ probably just means ‘lord’) is, of course, hardly in the same category as lust, lechery and drunkenness, but these things have to start somewhere. I have modernised, slightly adapted for the sake of modern rhymes, and (because the author really does go on a bit) eventually interrupted him in exactly the way he tells his audience not to.
The second poem, How the Good Wijf taughte Hir Doughtir, is found in one fifteenth-century manuscript together with the previous work (and also elsewhere). Once again I have modernised, adapted the rhymes (especially for the heavy-handed concluding mottoes), and once more cut it off at about half-time. Not really a text for feminists, although the lines about avoiding public spectacles are good in the original:
‘Go not to the wrastlinge, ne to shotying at cok
As it were a strumpet or a giggelot.’
The Book of Polite Behaviour
My dear son, first yourself enable
with all your heart to virtuous discipline.
Before your sovereign, standing at the table
dispose yourself in line with my doctrine,
to all nurture your courage to incline.
First, when you speak, you should not be reckless,
and keep your hands and fingers still at peace.
Be quite straightforward; do not look aside,
gaze not about, turning around at all,
against a post let not your back abide,
nor make a looking-glass out of the wall.
Pick not your nose; and really above all
be well aware and keep in mind this catch:
before the king, don’t rub or pick or scratch.
Whoever speaks to you in any place,
don’t cast your head lumpishly down,
but look him clear and solemn in the face.
Walk properly the streets within the town,
and take good heed of wisdom and reason,
that with your wanton laughter you cause no offence
before your lord, when you are in his presence.
Pare clean your nails, and wash your hands also
before you eat, and when you do arise.
Sit in the place that you are assigned to;
Praise not too high in no manner or wise;
And when you see before you the service,
don’t be too hasty to bite into bread,
lest ‘greedy’ is the word that will be said.
Grinning and gawping at table, eschew,
shout not too loud; honestly keep silence.
Stuffing your jaws with food you should not do,
and talking with your mouth full gives offence.
Don’t gulp your drink in haste or negligence,
keep clean your lips of flesh and fish;
wipe clean your spoon; don’t leave it in the dish.
And with your teeth, of bread do not sops make,
and slurping soup is no gentility:
your cup with dirty mouth you must not take,
and leave no smears, if ale or wine it be;
Don’t wipe your filth off on the napery.
Be sure that when at meals you start no strife,
don’t pick your teeth at table with your knife.
Just honest mirth should be your dalliance;
but do not swear, and speak no ribaldry.
The best morsels – keep this in remembrance –
don’t garner for yourself exclusively.
Share with your fellows, that’s gentility.
Let not your plate be piled high with food,
make sure your nails aren’t black, but clean and good.
It is against the rules for gentlemen,
by telling lies, to cause offence;
don’t bring old scores to light again;
approach your lord with reverence.
Don’t play with your knife, learn some sense;
Keep still and quiet when you eat,
and never shuffle with your feet.
Don’t spill your sauce or splash the soup,
don’t bring a dirty knife to table,
don’t fill your spoon, lest it should drop
beside you (not commendable!)
Be quick and sharp, willing and able,
ready to fulfil right away
anything that your lord should say.
And anywhere you dine or sup
take salt politely with your knife,
make sure you don’t blow in your cup,
be friendly and begin no strife.
Try to stay peaceful all your life.
Don’t interrupt a man, where’er you wend,
before he brings his tale to an end …
How the Good Wife Taught Her Daughter
The good wife taught her daughter
full many a time and oft,
a good woman to be,
and said: ‘My daughter dear,
some good things you must hear,
if you listen to me.
Daughter, if you want to be a wife,
make sure you wisely work,
look lovely and lead a good life,
love God and Holy Church.
Go to church whenever you may
–make sure that you have been –
for you will do better on a day
when God’s house you have seen.
He must surely ever thrive
who lives decently all his life
my dear child.
Gladly pay tithes and taxes both,
to care for the poor be not loth,
give generously, be not hard,
a house will prosper where God is steward.
They merit more
who love the poor
my dear child.
When you sit in Church, just tell your beads,
don’t chatter with your friends instead,
don’t laugh at others, old or young,
bear yourself well and keep your tongue;
behave like this,
your worship will increase,
my dear child.
If any man courts you and wants to marry,
take care not to scorn him, whatever he be,
but talk to your friends, don’t hide it from them.
But don’t get so clos
e that you’re tempted to sin.
For a slander raised ill,
is very hard to quell,
my dear child.
The man you shall wed before God with a ring,
love him and honour above all earthly things;
meekly you must answer, not assertively,
then you’ll calm his mood, and his darling you’ll be.
A fair word and meek
lays wrath to sleep
my dear child.
Fair of speech you should be, glad, and of mild mood,
true in words and in deed, and in your conscience good;
keep away from sin, villainy and blame,
and do not let others speak of you with shame;
if a good life you lead
you’ll not be in need,
my dear child.
Be seemly and wise, keep your manners in mind,
and don’t change your looks just as you change your mind;
do not be a slut, though, whatever betide,
don’t laugh too loudly and don’t yawn too wide,
but laugh soft and mild
and don’t be too wild
my dear child.
Outside, don’t walk too rapidly,
nor toss your head, or wiggle your body;
don’t talk too much, and do not swear –
such manners lead to wickedness, I fear;
for to get a bad name
is the wrong kind of fame,
my dear child.
Don’t go into town just on some pretext,
gadding about from one house to the next,
don’t go to the market to sell your fine cloth,
then straight to the tavern to spend the whole lot.
To the tavern to drift,
isn’t good for your thrift
my dear child.
If you’re in the vicinity of some good beer,
whether you are serving or supping the cheer,
drink moderately, and you won’t get the blame
of being a drunk, which leads only to shame.
If you’re often in drink
then your money will sink,
my dear child.
Don’t go to the wrestling, or shooting or darts,
these are fit only for strumpets and tarts.
Stay at home, daughter, and love thy work, too,
and then, my dear child, riches will come to you.
Far better is the one intent
with what one has, to be content
my dear child.
Don’t stop to chat with each young man that you meet,
say ‘good day’ and move on, when you pass in the street.
Then let him move on – do not stand there and chat,
so he gets no ideas to do lots more than that!
For a man may tell lies
that fair words can disguise,
my dear child …’
Sebastian Brant
Brant’s Narrenschiff, the Ship of Fools, appeared in 1494 and is one of the most famous works of its time – much reprinted and much translated. Brant attacks over a hundred types of foolishness, and this section shows the regularity of it all, as he hits out at a couple of fashion standbys: effeminate men (with medallions), and miniskirts. (The reference in this translation to a ‘Christmas Tree’ is an anachronism, but the original reference would have needed a footnote.)
Sebastian Brant
The Ship of Fools
IV. THE LATEST FASHIONS
If you are one of fashion’s slaves,
your action ruins and depraves,
and you’re one of the fools and knaves.
What used to be despised before
no-one cares about any more.
Men wore their beards with pride a while,
but now they’re learning women’s styles,
and smear cold cream upon their face,
and on their bare necks (ringed with lace)
medallions on chains we see
(as if they were a Christmas Tree).
They put pomade upon their hair
and then back-comb it everywhere.
They sit there with the curling-tongs,
or spread their hair out in the sun,
or bleach it by the fire all day,
(and let the lice come out and play).
They seem to dress in comfort, though,
with pleated clothes and furbelows,
doublets and jackets, shirts, cravats,
silk slippers, boots, hose, shoes and hats,
fur collars, long coats, all the same,
everything foreign’s ‘in’ again.
One fashion comes, another goes,
what fools we are is all it shows,
and capable of anything,
each novelty that fashion brings,
with skirts so shamefully cut short,
they barely cover what they ought.
It piles shame on me and you,
exposing bits not meant for view,
and showing what good taste conceals.
So things are really bad, I feel,
and I’m quite sure that they’ll get worse,
so, fashion-followers, be cursed!
And if you, too, ignore this wrong,
then you’ll get caught, before too long.
Andrew Boorde
Boorde was born right at the end of the Middle Ages, at the start of the sixteenth century, and we don’t know a great deal about him; he studied medicine, spent a certain amount of time in the Tower and one or two other prisons, got drunk in Monpellier in 1542, wrote a controversial treatise against beards, and was once accused of keeping three whores at Winchester. But he did write a fascinating tourist handbook of Britain, the First Boke of the Introduction of Knowledge, dedicated to Princess (later either ‘Queen’ or ‘Bloody’) Mary, published in 1547. I have selected the section on Cornwall (here adapted and modernised), not because of the adverse and probably quite unjust comments on sixteenth-century Cornish food or beer, and certainly not for the ‘enjoy yourself’ philosophy, but because Boorde puts his finger on one of the real signs of decadence in any society: an unholy urge to take each other (Cornishmen, that is, whose names begin with Tre-, Pol-or Pen-) to court all the time, usually about trivial nonsense.
Andrew Boorde
The First Book of the Introduction of Knowledge
The appendix to the first chapter, treating of Cornwall and Cornishmen
I am a Cornishman, ale I can brew;
It will make one to cack, also to spew.
It is thick and smoky, and sometimes it is thin,
It is like wash that hogs have wrestled in.
I cannot brew, nor prepare meat or fish,
Many folk say I mar many a dish.
Close the door, mate, I’ve something to say:
‘When old knaves are dead, young knaves will play.’
I’m starving to death, I swear by my faith,
I’ve eaten no meat since yesterday;
I should really like to take a cup –
Give me a quart of ale to sup!
Good mate, at home I’ve fish and tin,
Drink, mate, with me, or else I’ll begin.
God, what great cold and hunger I abide!
Will you, friend, come home at the next tide?
I pray God to preserve him well,
That when he comes home, me he will not kill
For putting a straw through his great net.
Another pot of ale, mate, now for me fetch.
I’ll go off to London to try at the law,
And sue Tre-, Pol- and Pen- for wagging a straw.
Now fellow, farewell, I can no more abide,
I’m off to the alehouse on the other side.
So come now with me, fellow I pray,
And let us make merry as long as we may.
Cornwall is a poor and very barren country of all manner of things except tin and fish. Their meat, their bread
and drink is marred and spoilt for lack of good ordering and dressing. Fir-cones and turves are their chief fuel. Their beer is absolutely worthless, looking white and thick, as if pigs had wrestled in it.
Smoky and ropey
never a good sup
in most places it’s worse and worse,
pity it is, them to curse.
For wagging of a straw
they will go to law,
and all not worth a haw,
playing like a jackdaw.
RELIGION
The Middle Ages are often seen as ‘the age of belief,’ and the period did of course produce literary works of genuine and – in the best sense of the term – monumental Christian piety: Dante is well enough known, Wolfram von Eschenbach’s Parzival and Hartmann von Aue’s Gregorius (undeservedly) less so. But there was another side. Church pronouncements against various kinds of spells indicate the ongoing use of magic, even if we have to exclude the many healing charms, which usually came equipped with a couple of ‘Our Fathers’ as insurance and were therefore, broadly speaking, acceptable. Storm raising and cursing are often mentioned, and people do seem to have tried to invoke demons, although it certainly did Gilles de Rais no good. On the other hand, a bargain with the devil could enhance one’s career prospects. There are plenty of legends of pacts with the devil, culminating of course in the Faust story. The devil nearly always wins, except in those versions where the pact-maker invokes the Virgin (or, in Goethe’s case, perhaps, the Eternal-Feminine). This is the saving of Theophilus, whose story is very close to the later one of Pope Joan (the Papacy was apparently filled, with diabolical assistance, by a woman, who gave the game away somewhat by giving birth in the Vatican, but who still went to heaven). But much of the material is presented as a warning, and black masses were probably not really held in Cornwall. Parody is another matter, though, and mock liturgies abound – the literary equivalents of the gargoyle. And at the end of the Middle Ages came the Reformation, based on the views held by the new Protestants that the Catholic Church had become decadent; not surprisingly, however, the Catholic Church took a similar view of the ideas put forward by the new Protestants, and consigned Luther to the privy.
The Dedalus Book of Medieval Literature Page 17