‘Wherefore I sing again, more clearly than before, in praise of Mary. Until this seed is taken from my tongue, I will sing ceaselessly. She has told me everything. “My little child,” she said, “I will come for you. When the seed is taken from your tongue, do not be alarmed. I will not forsake you.”’
The holy abbot then reached over to the boy, and took the seed from his tongue. Whereupon the child died peacefully. The abbot was so moved by this miracle that the salt tears ran down his cheek. He fell to the ground, upon his face, and did not stir. All of the monks then went down upon their knees, weeping and calling upon the blessed Virgin. Then they rose and with reverent hands took the child from his bier; they placed him in a tomb of marble, in the chapel of Our Lady. He lies there still, thanks be to God.
Oh little Saint Hugh of Lincoln, you were also slain by the Jews. Your death, so short a time ago, is still fresh in our memory. Pray for us sinners now, and at the time of our death. May God have mercy on our souls. Pray for us, Mother of God, so that your grace may descend upon us. Amen.
Heere is ended the Prioresses Tale
Bihoold the murye wordes of the Hoost to Chaucer
All of the company seemed grave, and reflective, at the end of the Prioress’s tale. But then the Host changed the mood by making a joke at my expense. He looked at me, and winked at the others. ‘What sort of man are you?’ he asked. ‘You look as if you are trying to catch a rabbit. All you ever do is stare down at the ground. Come closer to me. That’s better. Look up. Smile. Fellow pilgrims, this is a good man. You see the extent of his waist? It’s just like mine. He is a big boy. I am sure that some nice young woman would love to embrace him, plump though he is. Yet he is always abstracted. He is always miles away. Come on, man, tell us a funny story. The others have. Now it is your turn.’
‘Host,’ I said, ‘don’t take this personally. But I don’t know any stories. I can’t tell any stories. All I can recall is an old rhyme that I learned in my childhood.’
‘That will do,’ Harry Bailey replied. ‘From the expression on your face, I think it will be an interesting one.’
Sir Thopas
Heere bigynneth Chaucers Tale of Thopas
Listen carefully, please, to me
And I will tell the company
A funny little story.
At some time in history
There was a knight and gent
Good at battle and at tournament.
What was his name?
Sir Thopas.
He lived in a far, no, distant country
Not very near the sea.
He dwelled in a city called Hamelin
Famous for its porcelain.
His father was a rich man, and grand.
In fact he ruled the entire land.
What was his name?
I don’t know.
Now Sir Thopas was a brave knight.
His hair was black, his face was bright.
His lips were red as a carnation.
But then so was his complexion.
I could have said, red as a rose,
But I will confine that to his nose.
How big was his nose?
Enormous.
His hair was as yellow as mustard paste,
And he wore it right down to his waist.
His shoes were from the Vendôme
And his clothes were made in Rome.
They were so expensive
That his father looked pensive.
How much did they cost?
Thousands.
He could hunt for wild rabbit
And had acquired the habit
Of hawking for game.
He could wrestle and tame
The most ferocious ox.
He could whip the bollocks
Off any contestant.
He was no maiden aunt.
There were many young virgins
Happy to slake his urgings
When they should have been asleep.
But he did not so much as peep
At them. He was chaste as a lily
And stayed so willy-nilly.
So it befell that on one morning
Just as the light was dawning
Sir Thopas rode out on his steed
In hope of doing daring deeds.
He held his lancet like a lord,
And by his side there hung a sword.
He made his way through forests dark
Where wolves howl and wild dogs bark.
He himself was after game,
Which once more I rhyme with tame.
But listen while I tell you more
Of how Sir Thopas almost swore
With vexation.
Around him sprang weeds of every sort,
The flea-bane and the meadow-wort.
Here were the rose and primrose pale,
And nutmeg seeds to put in ale
Whether it be fresh or stale
Or only good as slops in pail.
The birds were singing sweetly enough,
Among the nightingales a chough.
Was that a chaffinch on the wing,
Or was it a dove just chattering?
He heard a swallow sing on high,
And then a parrot perched near by.
What a lot of noise!
And when he heard the birdies sing
He was filled with love longing.
He spurred on his horse
Over briar and gorse
Until the beast was sweating.
It looked like it had been rutting
With a mare.
Thopas himself was exhausted.
He got down from his quadruped
And lay stretched on the ground.
The horse was free at one bound.
It wriggled its arse
And chewed on the grass.
Fodder was solace.
‘Woe is me,’ Thopas lamented,
‘Why am I so demented
For love? I dreamed last night
That I had caught a bright
Elf-queen under the sheets.
What sexual feats
I accomplished!
‘If my dreams could come true
What deeds would I do.
I really need a fairy queen,
No mortal girl is worth a bean.
All other women I forsake,
A fairy girl is all I’ll take
In country or in town.’
Then up on to his steed
He jumped, in need
Of action with a fairy queen.
He rode along each hill and dale
Looking for that certain female.
Then quite by chance he found
A secret spot of magic ground,
The kingdom of the fairies.
In truth it was a little scary
And wild. And desolate.
He was not surprised to see a giant
Whose name was Oliphiant.
He had a mace
Which he aimed at the face
Of Thopas, saying, ‘Get out
Or I will give your horse a clout.
The queen of fairy
Lives in this aery
Abode. It is not for you.
Your horse is unwelcome, too.’
Sir Thopas turned red as rhubarb pie
And said in angry voice ‘I defy
You, Oliphiant, and I swear
To aim my lance here where
It hurts. Come out at break of day
And I will show you my way
Of dealing with giants.’
It was a good show of defiance.
Then Thopas rode away quite fast
As Oliphiant prepared to cast
Stones at him from a leather sling.
Yet our fair knight had cause to sing
When all the missiles missed their aim
And were not fit to kill or maim
The valiant warrior.
He was none the sorrier.
So gather round and hear the rest.
The giant came off second best
And Thopas, of high renown,
Decided to return to town.
He rideth over hill and dale
To reach the ending of my tale.
It will not fail
To amuse you.
His merry men commanded he
To cheer him up with game and glee.
‘Let there be a pageant
In which I fight a ferocious giant.
Then let the fairy queen appear
And proclaim herself to be my dear
Paramour.
I ask no more.