Song of the Merry Poor Lore Books

Description

On how the poor take no heed and sing merrily to themselves.

Text

Now has winter come,
Hear you, ragged ones!
Evil times are on us
And of clothing none!
Evil winds blow,
Evil is sown!
Blasts of bitter weather,
One upon another,
Bringing nought but bother
Heavy falls the snow,
Foretelling great woe!
Worn threadbare your cloak,
Hose torn and shoes are broke.
We sleep through summer
Heedless in slumber
Of next winter’s snows.
How great our woes,
How poor our clothes!
Ye poor, be of good cheer,
Joy is with us here!
Clothes worn away,
Heads turned to grey!
Despair, poor ones,
Shall guide us on,
What can we endeavour?
Our path forever
To seek God’s favour.
Caps from our heads torn,
None is left to keep.
What grief we have sown
So shall we yet reap!
Sheaves cut short
And sad of heart.
In Bohemia what to do,
But to the tavern go,
For relief from woe?

And at the alehouse then,
They give us nought to drink,
Oh, what misery to sup
From a dry and empty cup!
Pawn accursed,
with empty purse.
What can you endeavour?
Seek relief from labour,
And pray for God’s favour.
On Friday here’s our fare:
Soup from water prepared,
Stew of grass and wood;
An end to this bad food!
Fish will there be,
From Danube or sea?
Of that there’s little fear,
For even eels are dear,
And loach are far from here.
On Saturday we’ll sup,
From grief’s bitter cup.
And on Sunday morning,
Empty bellies groaning.
At table together,
One poor as another,
We’ll sit and take our share
Of nothing else but air
And let that be our fare.

The cooks for us will brew
From mist and fog a stew,
From darkness roasted game
And venison in dreams,
Stew a log of wood
Or a club for food,
To honour guests and treat them.
Such food they serve to feed them
Would better serve to beat them!
Keep your food so rough.
Black pudding with barley
And cabbage we love,
Buttermilk and whey,
Mashed peas,
Noodles with seeds
Of poppy, smoked ham too,
A pumpkin or two,
And chickpea stew!