King Horn Poem Text

Alle beon he blithe
That to my song lythe!
A sang ich schal you singe
Of Murry the Kinge.
King he was biweste
So longe so hit laste.
Godhild het his quen;
Faire ne mighte non ben.
He hadde a sone that het Horn;
Fairer ne mighte non beo born,
Ne no rein upon birine,
Ne sunne upon bischine.
Fairer nis non thane he was:
He was bright so the glas;
He was whit so the flur;
Rose red was his colur.
He was fayr and eke bold,
And of fiftene winter hold.
In none kinge riche
Nas non his iliche.
Twelf feren he hadde
That he alle with him ladde,
Alle riche mannes sones,
And alle hi were faire gomes,
With him for to pleie,
And mest he luvede tweie;
That on him het Hathulf child,
And that other Fikenild.
Athulf was the beste,
And Fikenylde the werste.
Hit was upon a someres day,
Also ich you telle may,
Murri, the gode King,
Rod on his pleing
Bi the se side,
Ase he was woned ride.
With him riden bote two -
Al to fewe ware tho!
He fond bi the stronde,
Arived on his londe,
Schipes fiftene
With Sarazins kene
He axede what hi soghte
Other to londe broghte.
A payn hit ofherde,
And hym wel sone answarede:
"Thy lond folk we schulle slon,
And alle that Crist luveth upon
And the selve right anon.
Ne shaltu todai henne gon."
The king alighte of his stede,
For tho he havede nede,
And his gode knightes two;
Al to fewe he hadde tho.
Swerd hi gunne gripe
And togadere smite.
Hy smyten under schelde
That sume hit yfelde.
The king hadde al to fewe
Togenes so fele schrewe;
So wele mighten ythe
Bringe hem thre to dithe.
The pains come to londe
And neme hit in here honde
That folc hi gunne quelle,
And churchen for to felle.
Ther ne moste libbe
The fremde ne the sibbe.
Bute hi here laye asoke,
And to here toke.
Of alle wymmanne
Wurst was Godhild thanne.
For Murri heo weop sore
And for Horn yute more.
He wente ut of halle
Fram hire maidenes alle
Under a roche of stone
Ther heo livede alone.
Ther heo servede Gode
Aghenes the paynes forbode.
Ther he servede Criste
That no payn hit ne wiste.
Evre heo bad for Horn child
That Jesu Crist him beo myld.
Horn was in paynes honde
With his feren of the londe.
Muchel was his fairhede,
For Jhesu Crist him makede.
Payns him wolde slen,
Other al quic flen,
Yef his fairnesse nere:
The children alle aslaye were.
Thanne spak on admirad -
Of wordes he was bald, -
"Horn, thu art well kene,
And that is wel isene.
Thu art gret and strong,
Fair and evene long;
Thu schalt waxe more
Bi fulle seve yere.
Yef thu mote to live go
And thine feren also,
Yef hit so bi falle,
Ye scholde slen us alle:
Tharvore thu most to stere,
Thu and thine ifere;
To schupe schulle ye funde,
And sinke to the grunde.
The se you schal adrenche,
Ne schal hit us noght ofthinche.
For if thu were alive,
With swerd other with knive,
We scholden alle deie,
And thi fader deth abeie."
The children hi broghte to stronde,
Wringinde here honde,
Into schupes borde
At the furste worde.
Ofte hadde Horn beo wo,
Ac nevre wurs than him was tho.
The se bigan to flowe,
And Horn child to rowe;
The se that schup so fasste drof
The children dradde therof.
Hi wenden towisse
Of here lif to misse,
Al the day and al the night
Til hit sprang dailight,
Til Horn sagh on the stronde
Men gon in the londe.
"Feren," quath he, "yonge,
Ich telle you tithinge:
Ich here foyeles singe
And that gras him springe.
Blithe beo we on lyve;
Ure schup is on ryve."
Of schup hi gunne funde,
And setten fout to grunde.
Bi the se side
Hi leten that schup ride.
Thanne spak him child Horn,
In Suddene he was iborn:
"Schup bi the se flode,
Daies have thu gode.
Bi the se brinke,
No water the nadrinke.
Yef thu cume to Suddene,
Gret thu wel of myne kenne,
Gret thu wel my moder,
Godhild, Quen the gode,
And seie the paene king,
Jesu Cristes withering,
That ich am hol and fer
On this lond arived her;
And seie that hei schal fonde
The dent of myne honde."
The children yede to tune,
Bi dales and bi dune.
Hy metten with Almair King,
Crist yeven him His blessing
King of Westernesse
Crist yive him muchel blisse!
He him spac to Horn child
Wordes that were mild:
"Whannes beo ye, faire gumes,
That her to londe beoth icume,
Alle throttene,
Of bodie swithe kene?
Bi God that me makede,
A swich fair verade
Ne saugh ich in none stunde,
Bi westene londe:
Seie me wat ye seche."
Horn spak here speche,
He spak for hem alle,
Vor so hit moste bivalle:
He was the faireste
And of wit the beste.
"We beoth of Suddenne,
Icome of gode kenne,
Of Cristene blode,
And kynges swthe gode.
Payns ther gunne arive
And duden hem of lyve.
Hi sloghen and todroghe
Cristene men inoghe.
So Crist me mote rede,
Us hi dude lede
Into a galeie,
With the se to pleie,
Dai hit is igon and other,
Withute sail and rother:
Ure schip bigan to swymme
To this londes brymme.
Nu thu might us slen and binde
Ore honde bihynde.
Bute yef hit beo thi wille,
Helpe that we ne spille."
Thanne spak the gode kyng
Iwis he nas no nithing
"Seie me, child, what is thi name?
Ne schaltu have bute game."
The child him answerde,
Sone so he hit herde:
"Horn ich am ihote,
Icomen ut of the bote,
Fram the se side.
Kyng, wel mote thee tide."
Thanne hym spak the gode king,
"Well bruc thu thin evening.
Horn, thu go wel schulle
Bi dales and bi hulle;
Horn, thu lude sune,
Bi dales and bi dune;
So schal thi name springe
Fram kynge to kynge,
And thi fairnesse
Abute Westernesse,
The strengthe of thine honde
Into evrech londe.
Horn, thu art so swete,
Ne may ich the forlete."
Hom rod Aylmar the Kyng
And Horn mid him, his fundling,
And alle his ifere,
That were him so dere.
The kyng com into halle
Among his knightes alle;
Forth he clupede Athelbrus,
That was stiward of his hus.
"Stiward, tak nu here
My fundlyng for to lere
Of thine mestere,
Of wude and of rivere,
And tech him to harpe
With his nayles scharpe,
Bivore me to kerve,
And of the cupe serve.
Thu tech him of alle the liste
That thu evre of wiste,
And his feiren thou wise
In to othere servise.
Horn thu undervonge
And tech him of harpe and songe."
Ailbrus gan lere
Horn and his yfere.
Horn in herte laghte
Al that he him taghte.
In the curt and ute,
And elles al abute
Luvede men Horn child,
And mest him luvede Rymenhild,
The kynges owene doghter.
He was mest in thoghte;
Heo luvede so Horn child
That negh heo gan wexe wild:
For heo ne mighte at borde
With him speke no worde,
Ne noght in the halle
Among the knightes alle,
Ne nowhar in non othere stede.
Of folk heo hadde drede:
Bi daie ne bi nighte
With him speke ne mighte.
Hire soreghe ne hire pine
Ne mighte nevre fine.
In heorte heo hadde wo,
And thus hire bithoghte tho:
Heo sende hire sonde
Athelbrus to honde,
That he come hire to,
And also scholde Horn do,
Al in to bure,
For heo gan to lure;
And the sonde seide
That sik lai that maide,
And bad him come swithe
For heo nas nothing blithe.
The stward was in herte wo,
For he nuste what to do.
Wat Rymenhild hure thoghte
Gret wunder him thughte,
Abute Horn the yonge
To bure for to bringe.
He thoghte upon his mode
Hit nas for none gode:
He tok him another,
Athulf, Hornes brother.
"Athulf," he sede, "right anon
Thu schalt with me to bure gon
To speke with Rymenhild stille
And witen hure wille.
In Hornes ilike
Thu schalt hure biswike:
Sore ich me ofdrede
Heo wolde Horn misrede."
Athelbrus gan Athulf lede,
And into bure with him yede:
Anon upon Athulf child
Rymenhild gan wexe wild:
Heo wende that Horn hit were
That heo havede there:
Heo sette him on bedde;
With Athulf child he wedde;
On hire armes tweie
Athulf heo gan leie.
"Horn," quath heo, "wel longe
Ich habbe thee luved stronge.
Thu schalt thi trewthe plighte
On myn hond her righte,
Me to spuse holde,
And ich thee lord to wolde."
Athulf sede on hire ire
So stille so hit were,
"Thi tale nu thu lynne,
For Horn nis noght her inne.
Ne beo we noght iliche:
Horn is fairer and riche,
Fairer bi one ribbe
Thane eni man that libbe:
Thegh Horn were under molde
Other elles wher he wolde
Other henne a thusend mile,
Ich nolde him ne thee bigile."
Rymenhild hire biwente,
And Athelbrus fule heo schente.
"Hennes thu go, thu fule theof,
Ne wurstu me nevre more leof;
Went ut of my bur,
With muchel mesaventur.
Schame mote thu fonge
And on highe rode anhonge.
Ne spek ich noght with Horn:
Nis he noght so unorn;
Horn is fairer thane beo he:
With muchel schame mote thu deie."
Athelbrus in a stunde
Fel anon to grunde.
"Lefdi min oghe,
Lithe me a litel throghe!
Lust whi ich wonde
Bringe thee Horn to honde.
For Horn is fair and riche,
Nis no whar his iliche.
Aylmar, the gode Kyng,
Dude him on mi lokyng.
Yef Horn were her abute,
Sore I me dute
With him ye wolden pleie
Bitwex you selve tweie.
Thanne scholde withuten othe
The kyng maken us wrothe.
Rymenhild, foryef me thi tene,
Lefdi, my quene,
And Horn ich schal thee fecche,
Wham so hit recche."
Rymenhild, yef he cuthe,
Gan lynne with hire muthe.
Heo makede hire wel blithe;
Wel was hire that sithe.
"Go nu," quath heo, "sone,
And send him after none,
On a squieres wise.
Whane the kyng arise
To wude for to pleie,
Nis non that him biwreie.
He schal with me bileve
Til hit beo nir eve,
To haven of him mi wille;
After ne recche ich what me telle." : 1
Aylbrus wende hire fro;
Horn in halle fond he tho
Bifore the kyng on benche,
Wyn for to schenche.
"Horn," quath he, "so hende,
To bure nu thu wende,
After mete stille,
With Rymenhild to dwelle;
Wordes swthe bolde,
In herte thu hem holde.
Horn, beo me wel trewe;
Ne schal hit thee nevre rewe."
Horn in herte leide
Al that he him seide;
He yeode in wel righte
To Rymenhild the brighte.
On knes he him sette,
And sweteliche hure grette.
Of his feire sighte
Al the bur gan lighte.
He spac faire speche -
Ne dorte him noman teche.
"Wel thu sitte and softe,
Rymenhild the brighte,
With thine maidenes sixe
That the sitteth nixte.
Kinges stward ure
Sende me in to bure;
With thee speke ich scholde.
Seie me what thu woldest:
Seie, and ich schal here
What thi wille were."
Rymenhild up gan stonde
And tok him bi the honde:
Heo sette him on pelle
Of wyn to drinke his fulle:
Heo makede him faire chere
And tok him abute the swere.
Ofte heo him custe,
So wel so hire luste.
"Horn," heo sede, "withute strif,
Thu schalt have me to thi wif.
Horn, have of me rewthe,
And plist me thi trewthe.
Horn tho him bithoghte
What he speke mighte.
"Crist," quath he, "thee wisse,
And yive thee hevene blisse
Of thine husebonde,
Wher he beo in londe.
Ich am ibore to lowe
Such wimman to knowe.
Ich am icome of thralle
And fundling bifalle.
Ne feolle hit the of cunde
To spuse beo me bunde.
Hit nere no fair wedding
Bitwexe a thral and a king."
Tho gan Rymenhild mislyke
And sore gan to sike:
Armes heo gan bughe;
Adun heo feol iswoghe.
Horn in herte was ful wo
And tok hire on his armes two.
He gan hire for to kesse
Wel ofte mid ywisse.
"Lemman," he sede, "dere,
Thin herte nu thu stere.
Help me to knighte
Bi al thine mighte,
To my lord the king
That he me yive dubbing:
Thanne is mi thralhod
I went in to knighthod
And I schal wexe more,
And do, lemman, thi lore."
Rymenhild, that swete thing,
Wakede of hire swoghning.
"Horn," quath heo, "wel sone
That schal beon idone.
Thu schalt beo dubbed knight
Are come seve night.
Have her this cuppe
And this ryng ther uppe
To Aylbrus the stuard,
And se he holde foreward.
Seie ich him biseche,
With loveliche speche,
That he adun falle
Bifore the king in halle,
And bidde the king arighte
Dubbe thee to knighte.
With selver and with golde
Hit wurth him wel iyolde.
Crist him lene spede
Thin erende to bede."
Horn tok his leve,
For hit was negh eve.
Athelbrus he soghte
And yaf him that he broghte,
And tolde him ful yare
Hu he hadde ifare,
And sede him his nede,
And bihet him his mede.
Athelbrus also swithe
Wente to halle blive.
"Kyng," he sede, "thu leste
A tale mid the beste.
Thu schalt bere crune
Tomoreghe in this tune;
Tomoreghe is thi feste:
Ther bihoveth geste.
Hit nere noght for loren
For to knighti child Horn,
Thine armes for to welde:
God knight he schal yelde."
The king sede sone,
"That is wel idone.
Horn me wel iquemeth;
God knight him bisemeth.
He schal have mi dubbing
And after wurth mi derling.
And alle his feren twelf
He schal knighten himself:
Alle he schal hem knighte
Bifore me this nighte."
Til the light of day sprang
Ailmar him thughte lang.
The day bigan to springe;
Horn com bivore the kinge,
Mid his twelf yfere,
Sume hi were luthere.
Horn he dubbede to knighte
With swerd and spures brighte.
He sette him on a stede whit:
Ther nas no knight hym ilik.
He smot him a litel wight
And bed him beon a god knight.
Athulf fel aknes thar
Bivore the King Aylmar.
"King," he sede, "so kene
Grante me a bene:
Nu is knight Sire Horn
That in Suddene was iboren;
Lord he is of londe
Over us that bi him stonde;
Thin armes he hath and scheld
To fighte with upon the feld:
Let him us alle knighte
For that is ure righte."
Aylmar sede sone ywis,
"Do nu that thi wille is."
Horn adun lighte
And makede hem alle knightes.
Murie was the feste
Al of faire gestes:
Ac Rymenhild nas noght ther,
And that hire thughte seve yer.
After Horn heo sente,
And he to bure wente.
Nolde he noght go one;
Athulf was his mone.
Rymenhild on flore stod:
Hornes come hire thughte god:
And sede, "Welcome, Sire Horn,
And Athulf knight the biforn.
Knight, nu is thi time
For to sitte bi me.
Do nu that thu er of spake:
To thy wif thu me take.
Ef thu art trewe of dedes,
Do nu ase thu sedes.
Nu thu hast wille thine,
Unbind me of my pine."
"Rymenhild," quath he, "beo stille!
Ich wulle don al thi wille,
Also hit mot bitide.
Mid spere I schal furst ride,
And mi knighthod prove,
Ar ich thee ginne to woghe.
We beth knightes yonge,
Of o dai al isprunge;
And of ure mestere
So is the manere:
With sume othere knighte
Wel for his lemman fighte
Or he eni wif take;
Forthi me stondeth the more rape.
Today, so Crist me blesse,
Ich wulle do pruesse,
For thi luve in the felde
Mid spere and mid schelde.
If ich come to lyve,
Ich schal thee take to wyve."
"Knight," quath heo, "trewe,
Ich wene ich mai thee leve:
Tak nu her this gold ring:
God him is the dubbing;
Ther is upon the ringe
Igrave "Rymenhild the yonge":
Ther nis non betere anonder sunne
That eni man of telle cunne.
For my luve thu hit were
And on thi finger thu him bere.
The stones beoth of suche grace
That thu ne schalt in none place
Of none duntes beon ofdrad,
Ne on bataille beon amad,
Ef thu loke theran
And thenke upon thi lemman.
And Sire Athulf, thi brother,
He schal have another.
Horn, ich thee biseche
With loveliche speche,
Crist yeve god erndinge
Thee aghen to bringe."
The knight hire gan kesse,
And heo him to blesse.
Leve at hire he nam,
And in to halle cam:
The knightes yeden to table,
And Horne yede to stable:
Thar he tok his gode fole,
Also blak so eny cole.
The fole schok the brunie
That al the curt gan denie.
The fole bigan to springe,
And Horn murie to singe.
Horn rod in a while
More than a myle.
He fond o schup stonde
With hethene honde.
He axede what hi soghte
Other to londe broghte.
An hund him gan bihelde
That spac wordes belde:
"This lond we wullegh winne
And sle that ther is inne."
Horn gan his swerd gripe
And on his arme wype.
The Sarazins he smatte
That his blod hatte;
At evreche dunte
The heved of wente;
Tho gunne the hundes gone
Abute Horn a lone:
He lokede on the ringe,
And thoghte on Rimenilde;
He slogh ther on haste
On hundred bi the laste,
Ne mighte noman telle
That folc that he gan quelle.
Of alle that were alive,
Ne mighte ther non thrive.
Horn tok the maisteres heved,
That he hadde him bireved
And sette hit on his swerde,
Anoven at than orde.
He verde hom into halle,
Among the knightes alle.
"Kyng," he sede, "wel thu sitte,
And alle thine knightes mitte.
Today, after mi dubbing,
So I rod on my pleing
I fond o schup rowe
Mid watere al byflowe
Al with Sarazines kyn,
And none londisse men
To dai for to pine
Thee and alle thine.
Hi gonne me assaille:
Mi swerd me nolde faille:
I smot hem alle to grunde,
Other yaf hem dithes wunde.
That heved I thee bringe
Of the maister kinge.
Nu is thi wile iyolde,
King, that thu me knighty woldest."
A moreghe tho the day gan springe,
The king him rod an huntinge.
At hom lefte Fikenhild,
That was the wurste moder child.
Horn ferde into bure
To sen aventure.
He saw Rymenild sitte
Also heo were of witte.
Heo sat on the sunne
With tieres al birunne.
Horn sede, "Lef, thin ore!
Wi wepestu so sore?"
Heo sede, "Noght I ne wepe,
Bute ase I lay aslepe
To the se my net I caste,
And hit nolde noght ilaste;
A gret fiss at the furste
Mi net he gan to berste.
Ich wene that ich schal leose
The fiss that ich wolde cheose."
"Crist," quath Horn, "and Seint Stevene
Turne thine swevene.
Ne schal I thee biswike,
Ne do that thee mislike.
I schal me make thin owe
To holden and to knowe
For everech othere wighte,
And tharto mi treuthe I thee plighte."
Muchel was the ruthe
That was at thare truthe,
For Rymenhild weop ille,
And Horn let the tires stille.
"Lemman, quath he, "dere,
Thu schalt more ihere.
Thi sweven schal wende
Other sum man schal us schende.
The fiss that brak the lyne,
Ywis he doth us pine.
That schal don us tene,
And wurth wel sone isene."
Aylmar rod bi Sture,
And Horn lai in bure.
Fykenhild hadde envye
And sede thes folye:
"Aylmar, ich thee warne
Horn thee wule berne:
Ich herde whar he sede,
And his swerd forth leide,
To bringe thee of lyve,
And take Rymenhild to wyve.
He lith in bure
Under coverture
By Rymenhild thi doghter,
And so he doth wel ofte.
And thider thu go al right,
Ther thu him finde might.
Thu do him ut of londe,
Other he doth thee schonde!"
Aylmar aghen gan turne
Wel modi and wel murne.
He fond Horn in arme
On Rymenhilde barme.
"Awey ut," he sede, "fule theof,
Ne wurstu me nevremore leof!
Wend ut of my bure
With muchel messaventure.
Wel sone bute thu flitte,
With swerde ich thee anhitte.
Wend ut of my londe,
Other thu schalt have schonde."
Horn sadelede his stede
And his armes he gan sprede.
His brunie he gan lace
So he scholde in to place.
His swerd he gan fonge:
Nabod he noght to longe.
He yede forth blive
To Rymenhild his wyve.
He sede, "Lemman derling,
Nu havestu thi swevening.
The fiss that thi net rente,
Fram thee he me sente.
Rymenhild, have wel godne day:
No leng abiden I ne may.
In to uncuthe londe,
Wel more for to fonde;
I schal wune there
Fulle seve yere.
At seve yeres ende,
Yef I ne come ne sende,
Tak thee husebonde;
For me thu ne wonde.
In armes thu me fonge,
And kes me wel longe."
Heo custe him wel a stunde
And Rymenhild feol to grunde.
Horn tok his leve:
Ne mighte he no leng bileve;
He tok Athulf, his fere,
Al abute the swere,
And sede, "Knight so trewe,
Kep wel mi luve newe.
Thu nevre me ne forsoke:
Rymenhild thu kep and loke.
His stede he gan bistride,
And forth he gan ride:
To the havene he ferde,
And a god schup he hurede,
That him scholde londe
In westene londe.
Athulf weop with ighe
And al that him isighe.
The whyght him gan stonde,
And drof til Hirelonde.
To londe he him sette
And fot on stirop sette.
He fond bi the weie
Kynges sones tweie;
That on him het Harild,
And that other Berild.
Berild gan him preie
That he scholde him seie
What his name were
And what he wolde there.
"Cutberd," he sede, "ich hote,
Icomen ut of the bote,
Wel feor fram biweste
To seche mine beste."
Berild gan him nier ride
And tok him by the bridel:
"Wel beo thu, knight, ifounde;
With me thu lef a stunde.
Also mote I sterve,
The king thu schalt serve.
Ne sagh I nevre my lyve
So fair knight aryve."
Cutberd heo ladde in to halle,
And hi a kne gan falle:
He sette him a knewelyng
And grette wel the gode king.
Thanne sede Berild sone:
"Sire King, of him thu hast to done;
Bitak him thi lond to werie;
Ne schal hit noman derie,
For he is the faireste man
That evre yut on thi londe cam."
Thanne sede the king so dere,
"Welcome beo thu here.
Go nu, Berild, swithe,
And make him ful blithe.
And whan thu farst to woghe,
Tak him thine glove:
Iment thu havest to wyve,
Awai he schal thee dryve;
For Cutberdes fairhede
Ne schal thee nevre wel spede."
Hit was at Cristemasse,
Neither more ne lasse;
Ther cam in at none
A geaunt swthe sone,
Iarmed fram paynyme
And seide thes ryme:
"Site stille, Sire Kyng,
And herkne this tything:
Her buth paens arived;
Wel mo thane five
Her beoth on the sonde,
King, upon thy londe;
On of hem wile fighte
Aghen thre knightes.
Yef other thre slen ure,
Al this lond beo youre;
Yef ure on overcometh your threo,
Al this lond schal ure beo.
Tomoreghe be the fightinge,
Whane the light of daye springe."
Thanne sede the Kyng Thurston,
"Cutberd schal beo that on;
Berild schal beo that other,
The thridde Alrid his brother;
For hi beoth the strengeste
And of armes the beste.
Bute what schal us to rede?
Ich wene we beth alle dede."
Cutberd sat at borde
And sede thes wordes:
"Sire King, hit nis no righte
On with thre to fighte:
Aghen one hunde,
Thre Cristen men to fonde.
Sire, I schal alone,
Withute more ymone,
With mi swerd wel ethe
Bringe hem thre to dethe."
The king aros amoreghe,
That hadde muchel sorghe;
And Cutberd ros of bedde,
With armes he him schredde:
Horn his brunie gan on caste,
And lacede hit wel faste,
And cam to the kinge
At his up risinge.
"King," he sede, "cum to felde,
For to bihelde
Hu we fighte schulle,
And togare go wulle."
Right at prime tide
Hi gunnen ut ride
And funden on a grene
A geaunt swthe kene,
His feren him biside
Hore deth to abide.
The ilke bataille
Cutberd gan asaille:
He yaf dentes inoghe;
The knightes felle iswoghe.
His dent he gan withdraghe,
For hi were negh aslaghe;
And sede, "Knights, nu ye reste
One while ef you leste."
Hi sede hi nevre nadde
Of knighte dentes so harde,
Bote of the King Murry,
That wes swithe sturdy.
He was of Hornes kunne,
Iborn in Suddene.
Horn him gan to agrise,
And his blod arise.
Bivo him sagh he stonde
That driven him of lond
And that his fader slogh.
To him his swerd he drogh.
He lokede on his rynge
And thoghte on Rymenhilde.
He smot him thuregh the herte,
That sore him gan to smerte.
The paens that er were so sturne
Hi gunne awei urne;
Horn and his compaynye
Gunne after hem wel swithe highe
And sloghen alle the hundes
Er hi here schipes funde.
To dethe he hem alle broghte.
His fader deth wel dere hi boghte.
Of alle the kynges knightes
Ne scathede wer no wighte,
Bute his sones tweie
Bifore him he sagh deie.
The king bigan to grete
And teres for to lete.
Me leiden hem in bare
And burden hem ful yare.
The king com into halle
Among his knightes alle.
"Horn," he sede, "I seie thee,
Do as I schal rede thee.
Aslaghen beth mine heirs,
And thu art knight of muchel pris,
And of grete strengthe,
And fair o bodie lengthe.
Mi rengne thu schalt welde,
And to spuse helde
Reynild, mi doghter,
That sitteth on the lofte."
"O Sire King, with wronge
Scholte ich hit underfonge,
Thi doghter, that ye me bede,
Ower rengne for to lede.
Wel more ich schal thee serve,
Sire Kyng, or thu sterve.
Thi sorwe schal wende
Or seve yeres ende.
Whanne hit is wente,
Sire King, yef me mi rente.
Whanne I thi doghter yerne,
Ne shaltu me hire werne."
Cutberd wonede there
Fulle seve yere
That to Rymenild he ne sente
Ne him self ne wente.
Rymenild was in Westernesse
With wel muchel sorinesse.
A king ther gan arive
That wolde hire have to wyve;
Aton he was with the king
Of that ilke wedding.
The daies were schorte,
That Rimenhild ne dorste
Leten in none wise.
A writ he dude devise;
Athulf hit dude write,
That Horn ne luvede noght lite.
Heo sende hire sonde
To evereche londe
To seche Horn the knight
Ther me him finde mighte.
Horn noght therof ne herde
Til o day that he ferde
To wude for to schete.
A knave he gan imete.
Horn seden, "Leve fere,
What sechestu here?"
"Knight, if beo thi wille,
I mai thee sone telle.
I seche fram biweste
Horn of Westernesse
For a maiden Rymenhild,
That for him gan wexe wild.
A king hire wile wedde
And bringe to his bedde,
King Modi of Reynes,
On of Hornes enemis.
Ich habbe walke wide,
Bi the se side;
Nis he nowar ifunde.
Walawai the stunde!
Wailaway the while!
Nu wurth Rymenild bigiled."
Horn iherde with his ires,
And spak with bidere tires:
"Knave, wel thee bitide!
Horn stondeth thee biside.
Aghen to hure thu turne
And seie that heo nu murne,
For I schal beo ther bitime,
A Soneday by prime."
The knave was wel blithe
And highede aghen blive.
The se bigan to throghe
Under hire woghe.
The knave there gan adrinke:
Rymenhild hit mighte ofthinke.
The see him con ded throwe
Under hire chambre wowe.
Rymenhild undude the durepin
Of the hus ther heo was in,
To loke with hire ighe
If heo oght of Horn isighe:
Tho fond heo the knave adrent,
That heo hadde for Horn isent,
And that scholde Horn bringe.
Hire fingres heo gan wringe.
Horn cam to Thurston the King
And tolde him this tithing.
Tho he was iknowe
That Rimenhild was his oghe;
Of his gode kenne
The King of Suddenne,
And hu he slogh in felde
That his fader quelde,
And seide, "King the wise,
Yeld me mi servise.
Rymenhild help me winne,
That thu noght ne linne:
And I schal do to spuse
Thi doghter wel to huse:
Heo schal to spuse have
Athulf, mi gode felaghe,
God knight mid the beste
And the treweste."
The king sede so stille,
"Horn, have nu thi wille."
He dude writes sende
Into Yrlonde
After knightes lighte,
Irisse men to fighte.
To Horn come inoghe
That to schupe droghe.
Horn dude him in the weie
On a god galeie.
The wind him gan to blowe
In a litel throghe.
The se bigan to posse
Right in to Westernesse.
Hi strike seil and maste
And ankere gunne caste,
Or eny day was sprunge
Other belle irunge.
The word bigan to springe
Of Rymenhilde weddinge.
Horn was in the watere,
Ne mighte he come no latere.
He let his schup stonde,
And yede to londe.
His folk he dude abide
Under wude side.
Horn him yede alone
Also he sprunge of stone.
A palmere he thar mette
And faire hine grette:
"Palmere, thu schalt me telle
Al of thine spelle."
He sede upon his tale,
"I come fram o brudale;
Ich was at o wedding
Of a maide Rymenhild:
Ne mighte heo adrighe
That heo ne weop with ighe.
Heo sede that heo nolde
Ben ispused with golde.
Heo hadde on husbonde
Thegh he were ut of londe.
And in strong halle,
Bithinne castel walle,
Ther I was atte yate,
Nolde hi me in late.
Modi ihote hadde
To bure that me hire ladde:
Away I gan glide:
That deol I nolde abide.
The bride wepeth sore,
And that is muche deole."
Quath Horn, "So Crist me rede,
We schulle chaungi wede.
Have her clothes myne
And tak me thi sclavyne,
Today I schal ther drinke
That some hit schulle ofthinke."
His sclavyn he dude dun legge,
And tok hit on his rigge,
He tok Horn his clothes:
That nere him noght lothe.
Horn tok burdon and scrippe
And wrong his lippe.
He makede him a ful chere,
And al bicolmede his swere.
He makede him unbicomelich
Hes he nas nevremore ilich.
He com to the gateward,
That him answerede hard:
Horn bad undo softe
Mani tyme and ofte;
Ne mighte he awynne
That he come therinne.
Horn gan to the yate turne
And that wiket unspurne.
The boye hit scholde abugge.
Horn threw him over the brigge
That his ribbes him tobrake,
And suthe com in atte gate.
He sette him wel loghe
In beggeres rowe;
He lokede him abute
With his colmie snute;
He segh Rymenhild sitte
Ase heo were of witte,
Sore wepinge and yerne;
Ne mighte hure no man wurne.
He lokede in eche halke;
Ne segh he nowhar walke
Athulf his felawe,
That he cuthe knowe.
Athulf was in the ture,
Abute for to pure
After his comynge,
Yef schup him wolde bringe.
He segh the se flowe
And Horn nowar rowe.
He sede upon his songe:
"Horn, nu thu ert wel longe.
Rymenhild thu me toke
That I scholde loke;
Ich habbe ikept hure evre;
Com nu other nevre:
I ne may no leng hure kepe.
For soreghe nu I wepe."
Rymenhild ros of benche,
Wyn for to schenche,
After mete in sale,
Bothe wyn and ale.
On horn heo bar anhonde,
So laghe was in londe.
Knightes and squier
Alle dronken of the ber,
Bute Horn alone
Nadde therof no mone.
Horn sat upon the grunde;
Him thughte he was ibunde.
He sede, "Quen so hende,
To meward thu wende;
Thu yef us with the furste;
The beggeres beoth ofthurste."
Hure horn heo leide adun,
And fulde him of a brun
His bolle of a galun;
For heo wende he were a glotoun.
Heo seide, "Have this cuppe,
And this thing theruppe.
Ne sagh ich nevre, so ich wene,
Beggere that were so kene."
Horn tok hit his ifere
And sede, "Quen so dere,
Wyn nelle ich muche ne lite
But of cuppe white.
Thu wenest I beo a beggere,
And ich am a fissere,
Wel feor icome by este
For fissen at thi feste.
Mi net lith her bi honde,
Bi a wel fair stronde.
Hit hath ileie there
Fulle seve yere.
Ich am icome to loke
Ef eni fiss hit toke.
Ich am icome to fisse:
Drynke null I of dyssh:
Drink to Horn of horne.
Feor ich am jorne."
Rymenhild him gan bihelde;
Hire heorte bigan to chelde.
Ne knew heo noght his fissing,
Ne Horn hymselve nothing.
Ac wunder hire gan thinke
Whi he bad to Horn drinke.
Heo fulde hire horn with wyn
And dronk to the pilegrym.
Heo sede, "Drink thi fulle,
And suthe thu me telle
If thu evre isighe
Horn under wude lighe."
Horn dronk of horn a stunde
And threu the ring to grunde.
He seyde, "Quen, nou seche
Qwat is in thy drenche."
The Quen yede to bure
With hire maidenes foure.
Tho fond heo what heo wolde,
A ring igraven of golde
That Horn of hure hadde;
Sore hure dradde
That Horn isterve were,
For the ring was there.
Tho sente heo a damesele
After the palmere;
"Palmere," quath heo, "trewe,
The ring that thu threwe,
Thu seie whar thu hit nome,
And whi thu hider come."
He sede, "Bi Seint Gile,
Ich habbe go mani mile,
Wel feor by yonde weste
To seche my beste.
I fond Horn child stonde
To schupeward in londe. 2
He sede he wolde agesse
To arive in Westernesse.
The schip nam to the flode
With me and Horn the gode;
Horn was sik and deide,
And faire he me preide:
'Go with the ringe
To Rymenhild the yonge.'
Ofte he hit custe,
God yeve his saule reste!"
Rymenhild sede at the furste,
"Herte, nu thu berste,
For Horn nastu namore,
That thee hath pined so sore."
Heo feol on hire bedde,
Ther heo knif hudde,
To sle with king lothe
And hureselve bothe
In that ulke nighte,
If Horn come ne mighte.
To herte knif heo sette,
Ac Horn anon hire kepte.
He wipede that blake of his swere,
And sede, "Quen, so swete and dere,
Ich am Horn thin oghe.
Ne canstu me noght knowe?
Ich am Horn of Westernesse;
In armes thu me cusse."
Hi custe hem mid ywisse
And makeden muche blisse.
"Rymenhild," he sede, "I wende
Adun to the wudes ende:
Ther beth myne knightes
Redi to fighte;
Iarmed under clothe,
Hi schulle make wrothe
The king and his geste
That come to the feste.
Today I schal hem teche
And sore hem areche."
Horn sprong ut of halle
And let his sclavin falle.
The quen yede to bure
And fond Athulf in ture.
"Athulf," heo sede, "be blithe
And to Horn thu go wel swithe.
He is under wude boghe
And with him knightes inoghe."
Athulf bigan to springe
For the tithinge.
After Horn he arnde anon,
Also that hors mighte gon.
He him overtok ywis;
Hi makede swithe muchel blis.
Horn tok his preie
And dude him in the weie.
He com in wel sone:
The yates were undone.
Iarmed ful thikke
Fram fote to the nekke,
Alle that were therin
Bithute his twelf ferin
And the King Aylmare,
He dude hem alle to kare,
That at the feste were;
Here lif hi lete there.
Horn ne dude no wunder
Of Fikenhildes false tunge.
Hi sworen othes holde,
That nevre ne scholde
Horn nevre bitraie,
Thegh he at dithe laie.
Hi runge the belle
The wedlak for to felle;
Horn him yede with his
To the kinges palais,
Ther was bridale swete,
For riche men ther ete.
Telle ne mighte tunge
That gle that ther was sunge.
Horn sat on chaere,
And bad hem alle ihere.
"King," he sede, "thu luste
A tale mid the beste.
I ne seie hit for no blame:
Horn is mi name.
Thu me to knight hove,
And knighthod have proved
To thee, king, men seide
That I thee bitraide;
Thu makedest me fleme,
And thi lond to reme;
Thu wendest that I wroghte
That I nevre ne thoghte,
Bi Rymenhild for to ligge,
And that I withsegge.
Ne schal ich hit biginne,
Til I Suddene winne.
Thu kep hure a stunde,
The while that I funde
In to min heritage,
And to mi baronage.
That lond I schal ofreche
And do mi fader wreche.
I schal beo king of tune,
And bere kinges crune;
Thanne schal Rymenhilde
Ligge bi the kinge."
Horn gan to schupe draghe
With his Irisse felaghes,
Athulf with him, his brother:
Nolde he non other.
That schup bigan to crude;
The wind him bleu lude;
Bithinne daies five
That schup gan arive
Abute middelnighte.
Horn him yede wel righte;
He tok Athulf bi honde
And up he yede to londe.
Hi founde under schelde
A knight hende in felde.
Op the schelde was drawe
A crowch of Jhesu Cristes lawe.
The knight him aslepe lay
Al biside the way.
Horn him gan to take
And sede, "Knight, awake!
Seie what thu kepest?
And whi thu her slepest?
Me thinkth bi thine crois lighte,
That thu longest to ure Drighte.
Bute thu wule me schewe,
I schal thee tohewe."
The gode knight up aros;
Of the wordes him gros.
He sede, "Ich serve aghenes my wille
Payns ful ylle.
Ich was Cristene a while:
Tho icom to this ille
Sarazins blake,
That dude me forsake.
On Crist ich wolde bileve.
On him hi makede me reve
To kepe this passage
Fram Horn that is of age,
That wunieth biweste,
Knight with the beste;
Hi sloghe with here honde
The king of this londe,
And with him fele hundred,
And therof is wunder
That he ne cometh to fighte.
God sende him the righte,
And wind him hider drive
To bringe hem of live.
He sloghen Kyng Murry,
Hornes fader, king hendy.
Horn hi ut of londe sente;
Twelf felawes with him wente,
Among hem Athulf the gode,
Min owene child, my leve fode:
Ef Horn child is hol and sund,
And Athulf bithute wund,
He luveth him so dere,
And is him so stere.
Mighte I seon hem tweie,
For joie I scholde deie."
"Knight, beo thanne blithe
Mest of alle sithe;
Horn and Athulf his fere
Bothe hi ben here."
To Horn he gan gon
And grette him anon.
Muche joie hi makede there
The while hi togadere were.
"Childre," he sede, hu habbe ye fare?
That ich you segh, hit is ful yare.
Wulle ye this lond winne
And sle that ther is inne?"
He sede, "Leve Horn child,
Yut lyveth thi moder Godhild:
Of joie heo miste
If heo thee alive wiste."
Horn sede on his rime,
"Iblessed beo the time
I com to Suddene
With mine Irisse menne:
We schulle the hundes teche
To speken ure speche.
Alle we hem schulle sle,
And al quic hem fle."
Horn gan his horn to blowe;
His folk hit gan iknowe;
Hi comen ut of stere,
Fram Hornes banere;
Hi sloghen and fughten,
The night and the ughten.
The Sarazins cunde
Ne lefde ther non in th'ende.
Horn let wurche
Chapeles and chirche;
He let belles ringe
And masses let singe.
He com to his moder halle
nobr>In a roche walle.
Corn he let serie,
And makede feste merie;
Murye lif he wroghte.
Rymenhild hit dere boghte.
Fikenhild was prut on herte,
And that him dude smerte.
Yonge he yaf and elde
Mid him for to helde.
Ston he dude lede,
Ther he hopede spede,
Strong castel he let sette,
Mid see him biflette;
Ther ne mighte lighte
Bute foghel with flighte.
Bute whanne the se withdrowe,
Mighte come men ynoghe.
Fikenhild gan wende
Rymenhild to schende.
To woghe he gan hure yerne;
The kyng ne dorste him werne.
Rymenhild was ful of mode;
He wep teres of blode.
That night Horn gan swete
And hevie for tomete
Of Rymenhild, his make,
Into schupe was itake.
The schup bigan to blenche:
His lemman scholde adrenche.
Rymenhild with hire honde
Wolde up to londe;
Fikenhild aghen hire pelte
With his swerdes hilte.
Horn him wok of slape
So a man that hadde rape.
"Athulf," he sede, "felaghe,
To schupe we mote draghe.
Fikenhild me hath idon under
And Rymenhild to do wunder.
Crist, for his wundes five,
Tonight me thuder drive."
Horn gan to schupe ride,
His feren him biside.
Fikenhild, or the dai gan springe,
Al right he ferde to the kinge,
After Rymenhild the brighte,
To wedden hire bi nighte.
He ladde hure bi the derke
Into his nywe werke.
The feste hi bigunne,
Er that ros the sunne.
Er thane Horn hit wiste,
Tofore the sunne upriste,
His schup stod under ture
At Rymenhilde bure.
Rymenhild, litel weneth heo
That Horn thanne alive beo.
The castel thei ne knewe,
For he was so nywe.
Horn fond sittinde Arnoldin,
That was Athulfes cosin,
That ther was in that tide,
Horn for tabide.
"Horn knight," he sede, "kinges sone,
Wel beo thu to londe icome.
Today hath ywedde Fikenhild
Thi swete lemman Rymenhild.
Ne schal I thee lie:
He hath giled thee twie.
This tur he let make
Al for thine sake.
Ne mai ther come inne
Noman with none ginne.
Horn, nu Crist thee wisse,
Of Rymenhild that thu ne misse."
Horn cuthe al the liste
That eni man of wiste.
Harpe he gan schewe,
And tok felawes fewe,
Of knightes swithe snelle
That schrudde hem at wille. 3
Hi yeden bi the gravel
Toward the castel.
Hi gunne murie singe
And makede here gleowinge.
Rymenhild hit gan ihere
And axede what hi were.
Hi sede hi weren harpurs
And sume were gigours.
He dude Horn in late
Right at halle gate.
He sette him on the benche,
His harpe for to clenche.
He makede Rymenhilde lay,
And heo makede walaway.
Rymenhild feol yswoghe
Ne was ther non that loughe.
Hit smot to Hornes herte
So bitere that hit smerte.
He lokede on the ringe
And thoghte on Rymenhilde:
He yede up to borde
With gode swerdes orde:
Fikenhildes crune
Ther he fulde adune,
And al his men a rowe,
Hi dude adun throwe.
Whanne hi weren aslaghe
Fikenhild hi dude todraghe.
Horn makede Arnoldin thare
King after King Aylmare
Of al Westernesse
For his meoknesse.
The king and his homage
Yeven Arnoldin trewage.
Horn tok Rymenhild bi the honde
And ladde hure to the stronde,
And ladde with him Athelbrus,
The gode stward of his hus.
The se bigan to flowe,
And Horn gan to rowe.
Hi gunne for to arive
Ther King Modi was sire.
Athelbrus he makede ther king
For his gode teching:
He yaf alle the knightes ore
For Horn knightes lore.
Horn gan for to ride;
The wind him blew wel wide.
He arivede in Yrlonde,
Ther he wo fonde,
Ther he dude Athulf child
Wedden maide Reynild.
Horn com to Suddenne
Among al his kenne;
Rymenhild he makede his quene;
So hit mighte wel beon.
Al folk hem mighte rewe
That loveden hem so trewe:
Nu ben hi bothe dede -
Crist to hevene hem lede!
Her endeth the tale of Horn
That fair was and noght unorn.
Make we us glade evre among,
For thus him endeth Hornes song.
Jesus, that is of hevene king,
Yeve us alle His swete blessing.
Amen.