The Man in the Moon
Mon in the mone stond ant strit;
On is bot-forke is burthen he bereth.
Hit is muche wonder that he nadoun slyt —
For doute leste he valle, he shoddreth ant shereth.
When the forst freseth, muche chele he byd.
The thornes beth kene, is hattren totereth.
Nis no wytht in the world that wot wen he syt,
Ne, bote hit bue the hegge, whet wedes he wereth.
Whider trowe this mon ha the wey take?
He hath set is o fot is other toforen;
For non hithte that he hath, ne sytht me hym ner shake.
He is the sloweste mon that ever wes yboren!
Wher he were o the feld pycchynde stake,
For hope of ys thornes to dutten is doren,
He mot myd is twybyl other trous make,
Other al is dayes werk ther were yloren.
This ilke mon upon heh, when-er he were,
Wher he were y the mone boren ant yfed,
He leneth on is forke ase a grey frere —
This crokede caynard, sore he is adred!
Hit is mony day go that he was here;
Ichot of is ernde he nath nout ysped.
He hath hewe sumwher a burthen of brere;
Tharefore sum hayward hath taken ys wed.
Yef thy wed ys ytake, bring hom the trous!
Sete forth thyn other fot! Stryd over sty!
We shule preye the haywart hom to ur hous,
Ant maken hym at heyse, for the maystry,
Drynke to hym deorly of fol god bous,
Ant oure dame douse shal sitten hym by.
When that he is dronke ase a dreynt mous,
Thenne we schule borewe the wed ate bayly.
This mon hereth me nout, thah Ich to hym crye!
Ichot the cherl is def! The Del hym todrawe!
Thah Ich yeye upon heth, nulle nout hye;
The lostlase ladde con nout o lawe.
Hupe forth, Hubert, hosede pye!
Ichot thart amarscled into the mawe!
Thah me teone with hym that myn teh mye,
The cherld nul nout adoun er the day dawe!
Original poem quoted from the following edition: The Complete Harley 2253 Manuscript, Volume 3, ed. Susanna Greer Fein and trans. David Raybin and Jan Ziolkowski (Kalamazoo, MI: Medieval Institute Publications, 2015), Online: