This document contains summaries of several poems written in a medieval style or setting: 1) The first poem describes a knight sitting alone on a stone contemplating the three things that give meaning to life: honor, wealth, and health from God. 2) The second poem is a lament by a poet for his lost love Laura, though she will live on in his heart and poetry. 3) The third poem warns of troubles in the realm when no one minds the helm (guides the ship of state). It describes a drunken celebration aboard a ship where the prince is the only one concerned for their safety. 4) Several other poems then follow in brief summaries, describing stories of medieval courts,

1. POEMS IN MOCK MEDIEVAL VEIN
After Walther von der Vogelweide's "Ich saz ûf eime Steine”
(composed around the year 1200)

2. From a collection of illustrations pertaining to poetic works written in Middle High
German of the Minnesang genre in the Codex Manesse , a document completed
in Zurich around 1340
My mind from worldly cares once lost
elbow on knee, hand to cheek, legs crossed,
I sat upon a seat of stone
thankful with thoughts to be alone.

3. and contemplate, now free from strife,
whate’er gives meaning to this life.
I saw, uplifted by strange wings
that life combines naught but three things
one so-called honour, one worldly wealth,
one given by God, soul-blessing health.
Honour and wealth in conflict toss
unless God's blessing heal their loss.
Thus violence roams from town to town
And men shed blood to own the crown.
As life's three parts ne'er share one
space
Unfamed or poor Iet’s choose God's grace.
LAURA
Mine ne'er to be, yet mine always;
Laura, spirit of dawn. Darkest night
Cannot hide thee nor obscure thy rays.
Though Black Death hath by his temporal right
Claimed thee, dost thou, my love , indwell this
heart.
Though Charon's hammer this clay vessel break,
The winds ne 'er scathed by Time's envenomed dart
Shall of its pure content aye possession take
And spread abroad thy fragrance to all Man,
Fill the valleys and linger o'er the seas.
'Tis not my part all future times to scan,
But thankfully to muse by pastures, groves and leas,
Await thy returning, nightly count the hours
"Till I rejoice with singing birds and flowers."

4. Langland's Piers the Ploughman Much
Shrunk
<
This time of trouble so torn by terror,
time of deep darkness and all-devouring death,
this time of woe, high wages and much
wenching
is no time for pleasant pastorals and praises.
I wander weary this winding way and wonder
what future ills befall our faltering folk.
Lady Favour fools high judges with her
frippery.
.Edward wends from week to week more
bedward,
grieving and grave and given much to groan,
his grown heir new buried, his sole heir just a
boy.
In two palaces two popes preside and prate.
O time of doubt and dismal dread of doom
But tarry, till then is time to talk.
I will not lie in Latin or fabricate in French.
Shepherds shear sheep; the manor munches
mutton.
The bull in the field is the beef on the board.
Thanks to a brute, that Norman nasty bully
we have our mixed, of late much muzzled
tongue.
I have but this, but this is all I need,
apart, that is, from a goblet full of mead.
After a Medieval German Rhyme by an
Anonymous Poetess
I am yours. You are mine.
This is the sure and certain sign
You are enclosed within my heart.
Its little key no man shall find.
Here then remain as long as time

5. Woe to the realm where none is
mindful of the helm
The helmsman sings a merry song:
Haec est vera fraternitas,
and downs a cup of something strong,
Hick, vera, hick, hick, fraternitas.
The sailors dance a lusty jig,
forsaking sails, crow's nest and rig.
Young princes and their ladies fair
join in the drunken helmsman's air:
Haec est vera fraternitas.
Commoners with nobles prance.
Friars and laymen, how they dance!
The jester sports a broken lance,
a trophy from the fields of France.
"To Henry!" sounds the raucous toast.
Hear the young knights, how they boast
of conquests on and off the field,
when foemen or coy maidens yield.
While Fitzroy strokes a wench's leg,
the boatswain opes yet one more keg.
See their chains of gleaming gold,
but feel the wind grown strangely cold.
William the atheling alone,
to the marrow of each bone
feels what sorrows must atone
for the sins of court and throne.
Woe to the ship, woe to the realm,
where none is mindful of the helm.
Woe to the king who ne'er shall smile,
woe to those bereft of child.
Gone is that day and gone that night,
gone that ship so ghostly white,
gone the prince who bravely sought
to save his sister, deed ill bought!
If, one night by Barfleur's shore,
you may hear that song once more:
Haec est vera fraternitas,
et haec est aeternitas.
******************************

6. The Tragic Story of Rosamond
Clifford
By some urge to learn more, beckoned,
I read up the life of Henry the Second.
With Thomas Becket he picked a bone.
This well known fact I'll leave alone.
Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine
became his wife and brought much gain,
but in one matter not enough.
The lack was relieved by a piece of fluff.
In charm and beauty sans pareille
was Rosamund, a bloom in May.
Lest her appearance eyebrows raise
he hid his love in a secret maze,
Or so he thought but his wife got wind
that he and someone else had sinned.
Thus it was that the wily queen
found her way to the hideaway scene.
"By dagger or poison, take your choice,"
said the queen with rasping voice.
No true event but a pure invention
was this encounter, let me mention.
To Hereford this rose they sent
there in a convent to repent.
Still young and fair, alas she died.
For shame once more, she had to hide.
Far from any royal palace
in stone were written words of malice:
"In life her scent was sweet to smell,
but not so now, the truth to tell."
Hic jacet in tumba Rosamundi non Rosamunda, non redolet sed olet, quae redolere
solet.
HOW SIRE GADDABOUT UNTO HIS NUPTIALSCAME
Sire Gaddabout one spring-tide morn

7. his sturdy dappled steed did mount.
for he would wed the highly born
Maid Ethrelda Holyfount
He plucked his lute and sang an air,
but scarce a league was trod
than came a cry. "Beware, beware!
Here comes the knave, Sire Heaviplodde.
"Sire Heaviplodde, my mortal foe?
Seeks he this day a fight?
'Tis him or me a mortal blow
must soon dispatch to endless night."
Sir Heaviplodde in armor black
rode up to mock and jeer.
Then said he, holding high a a sack:
"Your head will serve as souvenir."
"Make good, black knight, your foolish boast,"
stern-faced Sire Gaddabout did cry,
"or by ye saints your wretched ghost
full soon the Stygian strait must ply."
The shields did clash, the horses snort,
the dust did fly, the swords did ring,

8. and, to cut a long tale short,
'twas Heaviplodde who knew death’s sting.
A fulsome wench with babe at breast
stood steadfast in the way.
Sire Gaddabout at her behest
stopped for to hear what she might say.
She raised her babe for him to see,
she cocked her head and with a sneer
said:" Knight at arms, remember me?
You left behind this souvenir."
On seeing this the knight did blush.
He bade his squire go fetch some beer.
Then said he to the young girl "Hush,
this bag of gold should help out, dear."
Past hill, past hamlet, wood and mire,
he rode with noble carriage.
Might even yet the fates conspire
to dash all hopes of marriage?
Who stood with visage grim and old
to guard the way before?
A man in black held up a scroll,

9. whereon were writ the debts of yore.
Not all the gold the knight did hold,
not lands, not herds, his dowry,
could e'er redeem his debts of old
accrued in youthful folly.
"I have sinned" the knight did weep,
"and mercy is my plea.
I must to church my pledge to keep
in holy matrimony."
The grim collector smiled and said:
"As bridegroom you today are free.
Your past is like a shadow fled.
What counts today is what shall be."
The final dragon
Fair Hilda, pass, I pray, that flagon.
I now must face my final dragon.
Whence courage comes what do I care
As I approach my dragon’s lair?
Dragons twain are by me slain.
Dragon-slayer is my name.
Those days were spent in bygone youth,

10. And now grey age comes on forsooth!
Hilda, beetle not thy brow.
Old men can show ‘em young’uns how.
What now I cannot, yet once could
Experience, doubt not, makes good.
Alone my fearful reputation
Ensures an easy amputation.
Yet of the issue irrespective,
Loss and gain are all perspective.
And what though “the worst” transpired,
Knights, once pensioned off, grow tired.
For life’s a drag, when dragons are no more.
To dragons then this flagon’s dregs let’s
pour.
On the Bridge of Avignon
Lazy-bones, forsake your bed!
Shake off dull sloth, rise from the dead!
On the bridge of Avignon
there is dancing. Join the fun!
Ye gold-laden, ye who beg,
Young men dance with dash and vigour,
old men cut a less bold figure.
A priest and soldier back to back
flash their colours, red or black.
To the sprightly, to the lame
the piper's call is just the same.
Will you dance or will you nay,
all must dance, come end of day.