IN ARTICULO MORTIS.

No. 44.

Son. Oh, my father! help, I pray!
Death is near my soul to-day;

With your blessing let me be
Made a monk right speedily!

See the foe my life invade !
Haste, oh haste, to give me aid!
Bring me comfort and heart's ease,
Strengthen me in this disease!

Father. Oh, my best-beloved son,

What is this thou wouldst have done?

Weigh it well in heart and brain :
Do not leave me here in pain.

Son. Father, this thy loving care
Makes me weep full sore, I swear;

For you will be childless when
I have joined those holy men.

Father. Therefore make a little stay,
Put it off till the third day;

It may be your danger is

Not unto the death, I wis.

Son. Such the anguish that I feel

Through my inmost entrails steal,

That I bide in doubt lest death

Ere to-morrow end my breath.

Father. Those strict rules that monks observe, Well I know them! They must serve Heaven by fasting every day,

And by keeping watch alway.

Son. Who for God watch through the night
Shall receive a crown of light;

Who for heaven's sake hungers, he
Shall be fed abundantly.

Father. Hard and coarse the food they eat,
Beans and pottage-herbs their meat;
After such a banquet, think,

Water is their only drink!

Son. What's the good of feasts, or bright
Cups of Bacchus, when, in spite
Of all comforts, at the last

This poor flesh to worms is cast?

Father. Well, then, let thy parent's moan
Move thee in thy soul, my son!
Mourning for thee made a monk,
Dead-alive in darkness sunk.

Son. They who father, mother love,
And their God neglect, will prove

M

That they are in error found

When the judgment trump shall sound.

Father. Logic! would thou ne'er hadst been
Known on earth for mortal teen!

Many a clerk thou makʼst to roam
Wretched, exiled from his home.-

Never more thine eyes, my son,
Shall behold thy darling one,
Him, that little clerk so fair,
N., thy friend beyond compare!

Son. Oh, alas! unhappy me!

What to do I cannot see ;
Wandering lost in exile so,
Without guide or light I go !-

Dry your tears, my father dear,
Haply there is better cheer;
Now my mind on change is set,
I'll not be a monk, not yet.

XIX.

The order adopted in this essay brings us now to drinking-songs. Next to spring and love, our students set their affections principally on the tavern and the winebowl. In the poems on the Order we have seen how large a space in their vagrant lives was occupied by the tavern and its jovial company of topers and gamesters. It was there that

"Some are gaming, some are drinking,
Some are living without thinking;
And of those who make the racket,
Some are stripped of coat and jacket;
Some get clothes of finer feather,
Some are cleaned out altogether;

No one there dreads death's invasion,
But all drink in emulation."

The song from which I have extracted this stanza contains a parody of S. Thomas Aquinas' hymn on the Eucharist. To translate it seemed to me impossible; but I will cite the following stanza, which may be compared with stanzas ix. and x. of Lauda Sion :

"Bibit hera, bibit herus,

Bibit miles, bibit clerus,

Bibit ille, bibit illa,

Bibit servus cum ancilla,

*In Taberna, Carm. Bur., p. 235.

Bibit velox, bibit piger,
Bibit albus, bibit niger,
Bibit constans, bibit vagus,
Bibit rudis, bibit magus."

Several of the best anacreontics of the period are even more distinctly parodies. The following panegyric of wine, for example, is modelled upon a hymn to the Virgin :

A SEQUENCE IN PRAISE OF WINE.

No. 45.

Wine the good and bland, thou blessing
Of the good, the bad's distressing,

Sweet of taste by all confessing,

Hail, thou world's felicity!
Hail thy hue, life's gloom dispelling;
Hail thy taste, all tastes excelling;
By thy power, in this thy dwelling
Deign to make us drunk with thee!

Oh, how blest for bounteous uses
Is the birth of pure vine-juices!
Safe's the table which produces
Wine in goodly quality.
Oh, in colour how auspicious!
Oh, in odour how delicious!
In the mouth how sweet, propitious

To the tongue enthralled by thee!