Reeve's Tale - Richard Brodie's Modern English translation

Discover a great modern American poetic treasure Ellin Anderson

Richard Brodie's modern English translation of
The Reeve's Tale
from Geoffrey Chaucer's Canterbury Tales

Also completed: General Prologue, Knight, Miller, Cook, Man of Law, Prioress

Whan folk hadde laughen at this nyce cas
Of Absolon and hende Nicholas,
Diverse folk diversely they seyde,
But for the moore part they loughe and pleyde.
Ne at this tale I saugh no man hym greve,
But it were oonly Osewold the Reve.
By cause he was of carpenteris craft,
A litel ire is in his herte ylaft;
He gan to grucche, and blamed it a lite.

"So theek," quod he, "ful wel koude I thee quite
With bleryng of a proud milleres ye,
If that me liste speke of ribaudye.
But ik am oold; me list not pley for age;
Gras tyme is doon; my fodder is now forage;
This white top writeth myne olde yeris;
Myn herte is also mowled as myne heris,

‘But if I fare as dooth an open-ers --
That ilke fruyt is ever lenger the wers,
Til it be roten in mullok or in stree.
We olde men, I drede, so fare we:
Til we be roten, kan we nat be rype;
We hoppen alwey whil that the world wol pype.
For in oure wyl ther stiketh evere a nayl,
To have an hoor heed and a grene tayl,
As hath a leek; for thogh oure myght be goon,
Oure wyl desireth folie evere in oon.
For whan we may nat doon, than wol we speke;
Yet in oure asshen olde is fyr yreke.

"Foure gleedes han we, which I shal devyse --
Avauntyng, liyng, anger, coveitise;
Thise foure sparkles longen unto eelde.
Oure olde lemes mowe wel been unweelde,
But wyl ne shal nat faillen, that is sooth.
And yet ik have alwey a coltes tooth,
As many a yeer as it is passed henne
Syn that my tappe of lif bigan to renne.
For sikerly, whan I was bore, anon
Deeth drough the tappe of lyf and leet it gon,
And ever sithe hath so the tappe yronne
Til that almoost al empty is the tonne.
The streem of lyf now droppeth on the chymbe.
The sely tonge may wel rynge and chymbe
Of wrecchednesse that passed is ful yoore;
With olde folk, save dotage, is namoore!"

Whan that oure Hoost hadde herd this sermonyng,
He gan to speke as lordly as a kyng.
He seide, "What amounteth al this wit?
What shul we speke alday of hooly writ?
The devel made a reve for to preche,
Or of a soutere a shipman or a leche.
Sey forth thy tale, and tarie nat the tyme.
Lo Depeford, and it is half-wey pryme!
Lo Grenewych, ther many a shrewe is inne!
It were al tyme thy tale to bigynne."

"Now, sires," quod this Osewold the Reve,
"I pray yow alle that ye nat yow greve,
Thogh I answere, and somdeel sette his howve;
For leveful is with force force of-showve.

"This dronke Millere hath ytoold us heer
How that bigyled was a carpenteer,
Peraventure in scorn, for I am oon.
And, by youre leve, I shal hym quite anoon;
Right in his cherles termes wol I speke.
I pray to God his nekke mote to-breke;
He kan wel in myn eye seen a stalke,
But in his owene he kan nat seen a balke."

When people laughed about this story lewd
Of Absolom and Nicholas the shrewd,
Opinion was diverse, but it would seem
That the consensus was it was a scream!
One killjoy in the party, though, dissents.
Only the Reeve, named Oswold, takes offense.
Because he was a carpenter by trade,
He felt a little put off, I’m afraid.
He started to kibitz and criticize.

“To get back, o’er a haughty miller’s eyes
I very easily could cast a cloud,
If I for ribaldry were not too proud.
But since I’m old, to play I’m disinclined;
I’m dry straw now, my green grass left behind.
The whiteness up on top my age lays bare;
My heart is just a moldy as my hair.

“It is much like the medlar fruit I fare --
Before it ripens must this hard-skinned pear
Decay and then, cast off, as refuse rot.
For aging men like us, this is our lot.
With rotting ripeness down inside our pants,
When we hear music we still want to dance;
For though we are white-haired we still are horny,
But in our side there sticks this thought quite thorny:
No matter how romantic we have waxéd,
That ripe but rotten horn is now quite flaccid!
Performance challenged, we’ll talk of desire,
Yet our cold ashes smother our hot fire.

“But we have five live coals, won’t you concede --
Boasting, dissembling, anger, lust, and greed;
Five little sparks that to old age belong.
Our old limbs may no longer be so strong,
But on desire, it’s true, we’re never short,
Always longing to have a young man’s sport.
And since my tap of life began to run,
Many a year has passed in youthful fun.
For surely at my birth, long years ago,
Death opened up that tap and let it flow;
And since the spigot has been turned on high
The barrel now is very nearly dry.
Life’s now just drops, that one time was a stream.
An old man’s foolish wagging tongue may teem
With many a tale of how life really sucks;
For Fortune’s daggers we’ve been sitting ducks!”

The Host, on hearing this long-winded rant,
Impatient with his drivel said, “You can’t
This pseudo-wisdom keep on spouting. Hey,
Must we your preaching listen to all day?
The devil into priests makes reeves to burgeon,
Just like he makes the cobbler a brain-surgeon!
We’re losing patience - at least I’ve lost mine.
This trains a-movin’, it’s fifteen till nine!
Grand Central Station - last one on the line!
It’s time to tell your tale, not to opine.”

“Hey mister, to your mouth apply some tape;
There’s no sense getting all bent out of shape.
I just intend the miller to attack
With his own medicine, to pay him back.

“This drunken miller’s tale was way uncool,
His carpenter made out to be a fool.
Since I am one, I’ll bet it was in scorn.
With your permission I will turn his porn
Around, right back on top of his own head.
We’d all be better off if he were dead.
He claims that my eyes are a little clouded,
While in near total darkness his are shrouded.”

Reeve's Tale

At Trumpyngtoun, nat fer fro Cantebrigge,
Ther gooth a brook, and over that a brigge,
Upon the whiche brook ther stant a melle;
And this is verray sooth that I yow telle:
A millere was ther dwellynge many a day.
As any pecok he was proud and gay.
Pipen he koude and fisshe, and nettes beete,
And turne coppes, and wel wrastle and sheete;
Ay by his belt he baar a long panade,
And of a swerd ful trenchant was the blade.
A joly poppere baar he in his pouche;
Ther was no man, for peril, dorste hym touche.
A Sheffeld thwitel baar he in his hose.
Round was his face, and camus was his nose;
As piled as an ape was his skulle.
He was a market-betere atte fulle.
Ther dorste no wight hand upon hym legge,
That he ne swoor he sholde anon abegge.
A theef he was for sothe of corn and mele,
And that a sly, and usaunt for to stele.
His name was hoote deynous Symkyn.
A wyf he hadde, ycomen of noble kyn;
The person of the toun hir fader was.
With hire he yaf ful many a panne of bras,
For that Symkyn sholde in his blood allye.
She was yfostred in a nonnerye;
For Symkyn wolde no wyf, as he sayde,
But she were wel ynorissed and a mayde,
To saven his estaat of yomanrye.
And she was proud, and peert as is a pye.
A ful fair sighte was it upon hem two;
On halydayes biforn hire wolde he go
With his typet wounde aboute his heed,
And she cam after in a gyte of reed;
And Symkyn hadde hosen of the same.
Ther dorste no wight clepen hire but "dame";
Was noon so hardy that wente by the weye
That with hire dorste rage or ones pleye,
But if he wolde be slayn of Symkyn
With panade, or with knyf, or boidekyn.
For jalous folk ben perilous everemo --
Algate they wolde hire wyves wenden so.
And eek, for she was somdel smoterlich,
She was as digne as water in a dich,
And ful of hoker and of bisemare.
Hir thoughte that a lady sholde hire spare,
What for hire kynrede and hir nortelrie
That she hadde lerned in the nonnerie.

A doghter hadde they bitwixe hem two
Of twenty yeer, withouten any mo,
Savynge a child that was of half yeer age;
In cradel it lay and was a propre page.
This wenche thikke and wel ygrowen was,
With kamus nose and eyen greye as glas,
With buttokes brode and brestes rounde and hye.
But right fair was hire heer; I wol nat lye.

This person of the toun, for she was feir,
In purpos was to maken hire his heir,
Bothe of his catel and his mesuage,
And straunge he made it of hir mariage.
His purpos was for to bistowe hire hye
Into som worthy blood of auncetrye;
For hooly chirches good moot been despended
On hooly chirches blood, that is descended.
Therfore he wolde his hooly blood honoure,
Though that he hooly chirche sholde devoure.

Greet sokene hath this millere, out of doute,
With whete and malt of al the land aboute;
And nameliche ther was a greet collegge
Men clepen the Soler Halle at Cantebregge;
Ther was hir whete and eek hir malt ygrounde.
And on a day it happed, in a stounde,
Sik lay the maunciple on a maladye;
Men wenden wisly that he sholde dye.
For which this millere stal bothe mele and corn
An hundred tyme moore than biforn;
For therbiforn he stal but curteisly,
But now he was a theef outrageously,
For which the wardeyn chidde and made fare.
But therof sette the millere nat a tare;
He craketh boost, and swoor it was nat so.

Thanne were ther yonge povre scolers two,
That dwelten in this halle, of which I seye.
Testif they were, and lusty for to pleye,
And, oonly for hire myrthe and revelrye,
Upon the wardeyn bisily they crye
To yeve hem leve, but a litel stounde,
To goon to mille and seen hir corn ygrounde;
And hardily they dorste leye hir nekke
The millere sholde not stele hem half a pekke
Of corn by sleighte, ne by force hem reve;
And at the laste the wardeyn yaf hem leve.
John highte that oon, and Aleyn highte that oother;
Of o toun were they born, that highte Strother,
Fer in the north; I kan nat telle where.

This Aleyn maketh redy al his gere,
And on an hors the sak he caste anon.
Forth goth Aleyn the clerk, and also John,
With good swerd and with bokeler by hir syde.
John knew the wey -- hem nedede no gyde --
And at the mille the sak adoun he layth.
Aleyn spak first: "Al hayl, Symond, y-fayth!
Hou fares thy faire doghter and thy wyf?"

"Aleyn, welcome," quod Symkyn, "by my lyf!
And John also, how now, what do ye heer?"

"Symond," quod John, "by God, nede has na peer.
Hym boes serve hymself that has na swayn,
Or elles he is a fool, as clerkes sayn.
Oure manciple, I hope he wil be deed,
Swa werkes ay the wanges in his heed;
And forthy is I come, and eek Alayn,
To grynde oure corn and carie it ham agayn;
I pray yow spede us heythen that ye may."

"It shal be doon," quod Symkyn, "by my fay!
What wol ye doon whil that it is in hande?"

"By God, right by the hopur wil I stande,"
Quod John, "and se howgates the corn gas in.
Yet saugh I nevere, by my fader kyn,
How that the hopur wagges til and fra."

Aleyn answerde, "John, and wiltow swa?
Thanne wil I be bynethe, by my croun,
And se how that the mele falles doun
Into the trough; that sal be my disport.
For John, y-faith, I may been of youre sort;
I is as ille a millere as ar ye."

This millere smyled of hir nycetee,
And thoghte, "Al this nys doon but for a wyle.
They wene that no man may hem bigyle,
But by my thrift, yet shal I blere hir ye,
For al the sleighte in hir philosophye.
The moore queynte crekes that they make,
The moore wol I stele whan I take.
In stide of flour yet wol I yeve hem bren.
`The gretteste clerkes been noght wisest men,'
As whilom to the wolf thus spak the mare.
Of al hir art counte I noght a tare."

Out at the dore he gooth ful pryvely,
Whan that he saugh his tyme, softely.
He looketh up and doun til he hath founde
The clerkes hors, ther as it stood ybounde
Bihynde the mille, under a levesel;
And to the hors he goth hym faire and wel;
He strepeth of the brydel right anon.
And whan the hors was laus, he gynneth gon
Toward the fen, ther wilde mares renne,
And forth with "wehee," thurgh thikke and thurgh thenne.

This millere gooth agayn, no word he seyde,
But dooth his note, and with the clerkes pleyde
Til that hir corn was faire and weel ygrounde.
And whan the mele is sakked and ybounde,
This John goth out and fynt his hors away,
And gan to crie "Harrow!" and "Weylaway!
Oure hors is lorn, Alayn, for Goddes banes,
Step on thy feet! Com of, man, al atanes!
Allas, our wardeyn has his palfrey lorn."
This Aleyn al forgat, bothe mele and corn;
Al was out of his mynde his housbondrie.
"What, whilk way is he geen?" he gan to crie.

The wyf cam lepynge inward with a ren.
She seyde, "Allas! youre hors goth to the fen
With wilde mares, as faste as he may go.
Unthank come on his hand that boond hym so,
And he that bettre sholde han knyt the reyne!"

"Allas," quod John, "Aleyn, for Cristes peyne
Lay doun thy swerd, and I wil myn alswa.
I is ful wight, God waat, as is a raa;
By Goddes herte, he sal nat scape us bathe!
Why ne had thow pit the capul in the lathe?
Ilhayl! By God, Alayn, thou is a fonne!"

Thise sely clerkes han ful faste yronne
Toward the fen, bothe Aleyn and eek John.

And whan the millere saugh that they were gon,
He half a busshel of hir flour hath take,
And bad his wyf go knede it in a cake.
He seyde, "I trowe the clerkes were aferd.
Yet kan a millere make a clerkes berd,
For al his art; now lat hem goon hir weye!
Lo, wher he gooth! Ye, lat the children pleye.
They gete hym nat so lightly, by my croun."

Thise sely clerkes rennen up and doun
With "Keep! Keep! Stand! Stand! Jossa, warderere,
Ga whistle thou, and I shal kepe hym heere!"
But shortly, til that it was verray nyght,
They koude nat, though they dide al hir myght,
Hir capul cacche, he ran alwey so faste,
Til in a dych they caughte hym atte laste.

Wery and weet, as beest is in the reyn,
Comth sely John, and with him comth Aleyn.
"Allas," quod John, "the day that I was born!
Now are we dryve til hethyng and til scorn.
Oure corn is stoln; men wil us fooles calle,
Bathe the wardeyn and oure felawes alle,
And namely the millere, weylaway!"

Thus pleyneth John as he gooth by the way
Toward the mille, and Bayard in his hond.
The millere sittynge by the fyr he fond,
For it was nyght, and forther myghte they noght;
But for the love of God they hym bisoght
Of herberwe and of ese, as for hir peny.

The millere seyde agayn, "If ther be eny,
Swich as it is, yet shal ye have youre part.
Myn hous is streit, but ye han lerned art;
Ye konne by argumentes make a place
A myle brood of twenty foot of space.
Lat se now if this place may suffise,
Or make it rowm with speche, as is youre gise."

"Now, Symond," seyde John, "by Seint Cutberd,
Ay is thou myrie, and this is faire answerd.
I have herd seyd, `Man sal taa of twa thynges:
Slyk as he fyndes, or taa slyk as he brynges.'
But specially I pray thee, hooste deere,
Get us som mete and drynke, and make us cheere,
And we wil payen trewely atte fulle.
With empty hand men may na haukes tulle;
Loo, heere oure silver, redy for to spende."

This millere into toun his doghter sende
For ale and breed, and rosted hem a goos,
And boond hire hors, it sholde namoore go loos,
And in his owene chambre hem made a bed,
With sheetes and with chalons faire yspred
Noght from his owene bed ten foot or twelve.
His doghter hadde a bed, al by hirselve,
Right in the same chambre by and by.
It myghte be no bet, and cause why?
Ther was no roumer herberwe in the place.
They soupen and they speke, hem to solace,
And drynken evere strong ale atte beste.
Aboute mydnyght wente they to reste.

Wel hath this millere vernysshed his heed;
Ful pale he was for dronken, and nat reed.
He yexeth, and he speketh thurgh the nose
As he were on the quakke, or on the pose.
To bedde he goth, and with hym goth his wyf.
As any jay she light was and jolyf,
So was hir joly whistle wel ywet.
The cradel at hir beddes feet is set,
To rokken, and to yeve the child to sowke.
And whan that dronken al was in the crowke,
To bedde wente the doghter right anon;
To bedde goth Aleyn and also John;
Ther nas na moore -- hem nedede no dwale.
This millere hath so wisely bibbed ale
That as an hors he fnorteth in his sleep,
Ne of his tayl bihynde he took no keep.
His wyf bar hym a burdon, a ful strong;
Men myghte hir rowtyng heere two furlong;
The wenche rowteth eek, par compaignye.

Aleyn the clerk, that herde this melodye,
He poked John, and seyde, "Slepestow?
Herdestow evere slyk a sang er now?
Lo, swilk a complyn is ymel hem alle;
A wilde fyr upon thair bodyes falle!
Wha herkned evere slyk a ferly thyng?
Ye, they sal have the flour of il endyng.
This lange nyght ther tydes me na reste;
But yet, na fors, al sal be for the beste.
For, John," seyde he, "als evere moot I thryve,
If that I may, yon wenche wil I swyve.
Som esement has lawe yshapen us,
For, John, ther is a lawe that says thus:
That gif a man in a point be agreved,
That in another he sal be releved.
Oure corn is stoln, sothly, it is na nay,
And we han had an il fit al this day;
And syn I sal have neen amendement
Agayn my los, I will have esement.
By Goddes sale, it sal neen other bee!"

This John answerde, "Alayn, avyse thee!
The millere is a perilous man," he seyde,
"And gif that he out of his sleep abreyde,
He myghte doon us bathe a vileynye."

Aleyn answerde, "I counte hym nat a flye."
And up he rist, and by the wenche he crepte.
This wenche lay uprighte and faste slepte,
Til he so ny was, er she myghte espie,
That it had been to late for to crie,
And shortly for to seyn, they were aton.
Now pley, Aleyn, for I wol speke of John.

This John lith stille a furlong wey or two,
And to hymself he maketh routhe and wo.
"Allas!" quod he, "this is a wikked jape;
Now may I seyn that I is but an ape.
Yet has my felawe somwhat for his harm;
He has the milleris doghter in his arm.
He auntred hym, and has his nedes sped,
And I lye as a draf-sak in my bed;
And when this jape is tald another day,
I sal been halde a daf, a cokenay!
I wil arise and auntre it, by my fayth!
`Unhardy is unseely,' thus men sayth."
And up he roos, and softely he wente
Unto the cradel, and in his hand it hente,
And baar it softe unto his beddes feet.

Soone after this the wyf hir rowtyng leet,
And gan awake, and wente hire out to pisse,
And cam agayn, and gan hir cradel mysse,
And groped heer and ther, but she foond noon.
"Allas!" quod she, "I hadde almoost mysgoon;
I hadde almoost goon to the clerkes bed.
Ey, benedicite! Thanne hadde I foule ysped!"
And forth she gooth til she the cradel fond.
She gropeth alwey forther with hir hond,
And foond the bed, and thoghte noght but good,
By cause that the cradel by it stood,
And nyste wher she was, for it was derk;
But faire and wel she creep in to the clerk,
And lith ful stille, and wolde han caught a sleep.
Withinne a while this John the clerk up leep,
And on this goode wyf he leith on soore.
So myrie a fit ne hadde she nat ful yoore;
He priketh harde and depe as he were mad.
This joly lyf han thise two clerkes lad
Til that the thridde cok bigan to synge.

Aleyn wax wery in the dawenynge,
For he had swonken al the longe nyght,
And seyde, "Fare weel, Malyne, sweete wight!
The day is come; I may no lenger byde;
But everemo, wher so I go or ryde,
I is thyn awen clerk, swa have I seel!"

"Now, deere lemman," quod she, "go, far weel!
But er thow go, o thyng I wol thee telle:
Whan that thou wendest homward by the melle,
Right at the entree of the dore bihynde
Thou shalt a cake of half a busshel fynde
That was ymaked of thyn owene mele,
Which that I heelp my sire for to stele.
And, goode lemman, God thee save and kepe!"
And with that word almoost she gan to wepe.

Aleyn up rist, and thoughte, "Er that it dawe,
I wol go crepen in by my felawe,"
And fond the cradel with his hand anon.
"By God," thoughte he, "al wrang I have mysgon.
Myn heed is toty of my swynk to-nyght,
That makes me that I ga nat aright.
I woot wel by the cradel I have mysgo;
Heere lith the millere and his wyf also."
And forth he goth, a twenty devel way,
Unto the bed ther as the millere lay.
He wende have cropen by his felawe John,
And by the millere in he creep anon,
And caughte hym by the nekke, and softe he spak.
He seyde, "Thou John, thou swynes-heed, awak,
For Cristes saule, and heer a noble game.
For by that lord that called is Seint Jame,
As I have thries in this shorte nyght
Swyved the milleres doghter bolt upright,
Whil thow hast, as a coward, been agast."

"Ye, false harlot," quod the millere, "hast?
A, false traitour! False clerk!" quod he,
"Thow shalt be deed, by Goddes dignitee!
Who dorste be so boold to disparage
My doghter, that is come of swich lynage?"
And by the throte-bolle he caughte Alayn,
And he hente hym despitously agayn,
And on the nose he smoot hym with his fest.
Doun ran the blody streem upon his brest;
And in the floor, with nose and mouth tobroke,
They walwe as doon two pigges in a poke;
And up they goon, and doun agayn anon,
Til that the millere sporned at a stoon,
And doun he fil bakward upon his wyf,
That wiste no thyng of this nyce stryf;
For she was falle aslepe a lite wight
With John the clerk, that waked hadde al nyght,
And with the fal out of hir sleep she breyde.
"Help! hooly croys of Bromeholm," she seyde,
"In manus tuas! Lord, to thee I calle!
Awak, Symond! The feend is on me falle.
Myn herte is broken; help! I nam but deed!
Ther lyth oon upon my wombe and on myn heed.
Help, Symkyn, for the false clerkes fighte!"

This John stirte up as faste as ever he myghte,
And graspeth by the walles to and fro,
To fynde a staf; and she stirte up also,
And knew the estres bet than dide this John,
And by the wal a staf she foond anon,
And saugh a litel shymeryng of a light,
For at an hole in shoon the moone bright,
And by that light she saugh hem bothe two,
But sikerly she nyste who was who,
But as she saugh a whit thyng in hir ye.
And whan she gan this white thyng espye,
She wende the clerk hadde wered a volupeer,
And with the staf she drow ay neer and neer,
And wende han hit this Aleyn at the fulle,
And smoot the millere on the pyled skulle,
That doun he gooth, and cride, "Harrow! I dye!"
Thise clerkes beete hym weel and lete hym lye,
And greythen hem, and tooke hir hors anon,
And eek hire mele, and on hir wey they gon.
And at the mille yet they tooke hir cake
Of half a busshel flour, ful wel ybake.

Thus is the proude millere wel ybete,
And hath ylost the gryndynge of the whete,
And payed for the soper everideel
Of Aleyn and of John, that bette hym weel.
His wyf is swyved, and his doghter als.
Lo, swich it is a millere to be fals!
And therfore this proverbe is seyd ful sooth,
"Hym thar nat wene wel that yvele dooth."
A gylour shal hymself bigyled be.
And God, that sitteth heighe in magestee,
Save al this compaignye, grete and smale!
Thus have I quyt the Millere in my tale.

At Trumpington, not far from Cambridge, flows
A little brook, o’er which a footbridge goes;
A flour mill had been erected there.
Now, what I say is God’s own truth, I swear:
A miller lived there, as his trade he plied.
Just like a peacock, he was full of pride.
He fished and mended nets, held liquor well,
Played a mean bagpipe, wrestled, shot like hell;
Upon his belt a sword you’ll always see.
He keeps it sharpened to the nth degree.
A derringer he had, with shortened barrel;
You tangle with this guy at your own peril!
His features were all of the Simian sort:
A face that’s circular, a nose that’s short;
Just like an ape’s, his bald receding pate;
Cantankerous, and filled with ire and hate.
Not any man a hand on him dare lay
But what he swore that man would dearly pay.
From day one he has been a thief of grain;
His clients pay for his ill-gotten gain.
Simkin the haughty was this miller’s name.
The wife he had, from noble lineage came;
Her father was a parson of the town,
Whose favor curried he with many a crown
That with her family an alliance made.
To place her in a nunnery he paid,
For Simkin had no interest in a maid
Uneducated, or already laid,
For of his social status he was proud.
She like a magpie brazen was, and loud.
Of this fair couple all the townsfolk talked.
When he on holidays before her walked,
The tip of his hood wrapped about his head,
She walked behind him in a gown of red,
While Simkin stockings of the same hue sported.
The town’s respect successfully she courted;
A gentleman who passed her on the street
Dared not to flirt with her, lest he should meet
With Simkin’s wrath, who might just take his life
By bringing out his dagger, sword, or knife.
For jealous men have always posed a threat --
A message they would like their wives to get.
And since she was the daughter of a bitch,
She was as proud as water in a ditch.
She was so damn conceited, and so proud,
She felt a notch above the common crowd.
Her well-connected kin, and her degree
Did all contribute to her vanity.

They had between them but one daughter, twenty.
For many years they thought that that was plenty,
But then a little accident they had.
Six months ago was born a little lad.
To tell how fat this wench was, I’ll not bother;
For ape-like features, she can thank her father.
In spite of all these drawbacks she was fair
In one respect at least, and that’s her hair!

The parson for his daughter took great care
To make it certain she would be his heir,
Both of his property and of his house.
The only problem was her yeoman spouse.
He’d rather she’d not chosen such a dud,
And wed instead someone of better blood;
For things ecclesiastical deserve
To stay with families who the church do serve.
The system he must figure how to beat,
If that means he the holy church must cheat.

This miller has a real racket going,
Grinding the grain that all the land is sowing.
There was a college well esteemed by all,
Called by the folks at Cambridge, Soler Hall;
Which had its wheat ground into flour here.
One day there happened something sad, I fear:
The manciple fell ill - this was no joke;
The people thought that he would surely croak.
And at this news the miller stole much more
Of corn and grain and flour than before;
Previously quite petty was his theft,
But now his customers have little left.
The college president with ire was crazed,
But Simkin laughed it off - he was unfazed;
Out at these charges he did loudly lash.

There were two starving students strapped for cash,
Who in the hall I mentioned both did dwell.
With mischief filled, they’d like to raise some hell.
In quest of fun, to keep from being bored,
This president they fervently implored
To let them go and watch the miller grind,
That evidence of foul play they might find.
To bet their bottom dollar they would choose,
That even half a bushel they’d not lose
To Simkin’s sly chicanery and greed.
The president to their plan did accede.
One was called John, Alain the other’s name
Born in the north, from Strother they both came.
Precisely where that town is, I don’t know.

And so Alain gets all prepared to go;
A sack of grain he throws up on his horse,
Then he and John set off upon their course,
And for protection sharp swords carry they.
No need for any guide, John knew the way.
Once there, down on the ground the sack they lay.
“Hey, Simon!” said Alain, “How goes your day?
Your better half, and daughter? How are they?

Simkin replied, “We’re doing just fine, thanks.
And you and John? Up to your normal pranks?

“Simon,” said John, “need has no one to save.
He has to serve himself, that has no slave,
Or else he is a moron, as clerks say.
Our manciple seems near his final day.
The teeth within his head are so in pain.
And therefore I have come here with Alain,
And with us we have brought our corn and grain;
We’d like to have you expedite things, please.”

“Don’t worry, son, this job will be a breeze.
While I’m at work, how will you pass the time?”

“By God, up on the hopper I will climb,
And check out how the grain goes in on top.
In spite of all the kinfolk of my pop,
I’ve never seen a hopper operate.”

“Well, John, if you do that,” Alain did state,
“Then I’ll beneath it stick my head and wait
And watch how this machine the grain will grind.
That’s how I’ll get my kicks, if you don’t mind,
For you and I, John, are one of a kind.
One thing is certain, we are millers not”

The miller at their antics smiled and thought:
“They’re hatching, I suspect, some wily plot.
They think to trickery they are immune?
I’ll have them singing quite a different tune.
They think they’ve got sophisticated tricks?
I’ll put you in your place, you little pricks!
Let them be as ingenious as they can,
Instead of flour I will give them bran.
Just one unlearned common man who works
Is worth a hundred educated clerks,
Whose common sense is no match for a mite.”

So when he senses that the time is right,
With quiet stealth out of the door slips he
And looking all around at last does see
The clerks’ horse, standing tied up to a tree,
That by itself beside the millstream grows,
And cautiously up to the horse he goes.
He strips the bridle off without delay,
And when the horse was loose it ran away
Toward the fen, where wild mares run and play.
Forth neighing with delight this stallion hurries.

Without a word, back in the miller scurries.
While working with the clerks he has some fun
Until their order was completely done.
And when the meal was sacked and tied, this John
Goes out, discovers that his horse is gone,
And starts to cry out, “Help!” and carries on:
“God help us, for our horse is lost, Alain,
Get off your duff! Come on, man, what a pain!
We’ve lost the warden’s horse that he did train.
Alain forgot about the meal and grain,
And all his stratagems he laid aside.
“What, which way did he go?” he loudly cried.

The wife came at this moment, on the run,
And said, “Your missing horse is having fun
With wild mares, just as fast as he can go.
Cursed be the hand that tied him loosely so,
More surely should he have secured the reins.”

“Alas.” said John, “Alain, for all Christ’s pains
Lay down your sword, and I shall do the same.
I’m very fast - “Swift” is my middle name.
He’ll surely not escape us both. But darn!
How come you didn’t put him in the barn?”
Alain, I wish you had more brains, less brawn!”

These clever clerks went running off anon,
Toward the fen, Alain and also John.

And when the miller saw that they were gone,
Half of the flour for his use did he skim,
And asked his wife to bake a cake for him.
Though they were leery, he knew he could pull
Quite easily, o’er two clerks’ eyes, the wool,
With all his cunning; let them go their way!
Lo, there they go! Yes, let the children play.
They’ll not so quickly catch that happy horse.”

So round about these hapless clerics course,
With “Stop! Stop! Stand! Down there, watch out behind him,
You go and whistle, maybe then we’ll find him!”
But they were quickly running out of light,
And they could not succeed, try as they might,
To catch this horse, he always ran too fast,
Till in a ditch they captured him at last.

Weary and drenched, as beasts get in the rain,
Comes hapless John, and with him comes Alain.
“Alas,” said John, “the day that I was born!
I’ll be subjected to contempt and scorn.
Our grain is stolen - men will call me ‘Fool!’
The folks back home, and all those at the school.
The miller, worst of all, will us deride.”

Lamenting thus, these clerks their fate decried,
As with their horse, Bayard, they’re millward bound.
The miller sitting by the fire they found.
Since it was night, they could no further go;
They asked the miller if to them he’d show
Some hospitality, and let them crash.

“To stay at my place you must pay me cash,”
The miller said, “then you can have a part.
My house is small, but you are very smart.
Upon your learned logic I’ll be countin’,
For you can from a molehill make a mountain.
I’m sure if my abode will not suffice,
You’ll, just by talking, make it larger twice.”

“Simon, by all the saints - may their souls rest -
You’re always joking, poking fun in jest.
It’s said that man one of two things shall take:
Such as he finds, or such as he can make.
But I would ask the host, and make it snappy,
To get us food and drink, and make us happy.
We’ll pay you well, for we know money talks;
With empty hands a man can lure no hawks.
Lo, here’s the silver - spending’s our intent.”

This miller into town his daughter sent
For ale and bread. He roasted them a goose,
And tied their horse, so it could not get loose.
In his own chambers he provides a bed,
With blankets and with sheets all nicely spread,
Twelve feet from his, or thirteen feet, who cares;
And he the same room, with his daughter, shares.
The bed he sleeps in is right next to theirs.
As rooms go, here the picture is not rosy,
But the accommodations are quite cozy,
They sup and they converse for entertainment.
From drinking liquor there is no refrainment.
At midnight all retired. That miller bastard

Drank so much beer, he was completely plastered.
From drunkenness he’d gone from red to pale.
He belches; nasal speech from all that ale
Sounds like he suffered hoarseness or a cold.
His wife and he into their trundle rolled.
She was as gay and tipsy as they come,
Her whistle was so wet from gin and rum.
The baby laid into its cradle rests,
For rocking, and to nurse at mommy’s breasts.
And when the last drop from the crock’s been drunk,
The daughter likewise crawls into her bunk.
Alain and John both into sleep are sunk -
No need for any sleep-inducing drugs.
Of ale this miller drank so many jugs
That in his sleep he snorts, just like and ass;
Nor makes an effort to control his gas.
His wife joins in, her nose and rear-end roaring;
Men twenty blocks away could hear them snoring.
The wench snores also, so as not to bore us.

Alain the clerk, who listened to this chorus,
Pokes John, who says to him, “Is something wrong?
Have you, in all your life, heard such a song?
Though all now join this evening serenade,
They’ll sing a different tune for an aubade!
Such an amazing thing! Who would have guessed?
Well, of an ending bad, they’ll have the best.
This whole night long I’ll not get any rest.
No matter, for his thievery he’ll rue,
For John,” said he, “before this night is through,
That ugly wench there, I intend to screw.
For moral law provides us some redress,
Which does especially our plight address:
A man, if in one matter he’s offended,
Then his wounds, in another might be mended.
Our grain is stolen, that can’t be denied.
This whole day long with trials we’ve been tried.
He who no monetary loss recovers,
Gets payback in the currency of lovers.
By God’s soul, it shall not be otherwise!”

“You watch your step, Alain,” John did advise.
“The miller’s really dangerous,” he said;
“If suddenly he’s wakened in his bed;
That could well turn into a nasty spat.”

Alain said, “I don’t count him worth a gnat.”
So to the bed he creeps, where she is at;
Between her sheets he slips, as she lays flat.
That him she hardly knew is not what mattered;
To get all this attention she was flattered,
And both of them were having fun, anon.
Now play, Alain, for I shall speak of John.

John lies there nursing his bruised ego sore,
Till finally he can’t take it anymore;
He’s all filled with self-pity, to the core:
“Ain’t I the village idiot! Alain
At least some nookie has, for all his pain.
He for the miller’s daughter did have eyes;
He went out on a limb, and claimed the prize.
Here, like a useless sack of shit, I lie.
When someday people tell of this trick, I
Will be made out to be a foolish wimp!
I’ll take my chance and make their kid my pimp.
‘Timidity is bad luck,’ people say.”
With cautious stealth he rose and made his way
To where the cradle was; he softly tread,
And switched it to the foot of his own bed.

The wife stopped snoring, and grew still, instead.
Then she woke up and went to take a piss;
When she returned, her cradle she did miss.
She found it not, though for it she did look.
“To think,” she said, “That I almost mistook
The bed the clerks are sleeping in for mine.
Boy! Wouldn’t that have been way out of line!”
She searches till the cradle’s finally found,
And with her hand she keeps on groping ‘round.
Finding a bed, she thinks all’s hunky dory,
But it’s just the beginning of the story.
It being dark, into his trap she falls,
As in the covers with the clerk she crawls.
She touches, so she thinks, her husband’s balls,
Which makes this clerk, this John, upon her jump,
And he with relish, her begins to hump.
They both are lost in their illicit lusts,
As like a madman, hard and deep he thrusts.
These clerks continue both to get it on,
Until about an hour before the dawn.

By morning time Alain was all worn out
Because of his nightlong love-making bout.
“Farewell, Meline, sweet creature, I can’t stay;
It’s morning, and I must be on my way.
When I shall walk or ride, no matter where,
I will be your own faithful clerk, I swear!”

“Now, sweetheart,” said Meline, “go, fare the well!
But first to you there’s one thing I will tell:
When, homeward bound, you’re passing by the mill,
If you look right behind the door, you will
Discover there one half a bushel cake
The miller out of your own meal did make,
Which, I confess, I helped my father take.
My sweetheart, may God help thee! Now, good-bye!”
And with that she almost began to cry.

Alain rose up and thought, “Ere it is dawn,
I’d better go and creep in bed with John.”
He found the cradle with his hand and said,
“Good heavens! This must be the miller’s bed.
My head is reeling from excessive sex;
That’s why my brain my footsteps misdirects.
The cradle tells me where I’ve gone awry;
The miller and his wife in this bed lie.”
So forth he goes, by Satan’s angels led,
To where the miller really rests his head.
He thought that he was crawling in John’s bed;
In with the miller he did crawl, instead,
And shook him by the neck, as this he said:
“Hey John! Come on, wake up you mutton head,
For Christ’s sake, listen to this royal joke:
By James, that patron saint of common folk,
I did this night, not twice, but three times poke
The miller’s daughter, lying on her back,
While you, to do the same, the courage lack,”

“You scoundrel! If you’ve really done this thing,”
The miller said, “you’re lousy neck I’ll wring.
You're history, by Jesus Christ, our king,
If boldly you my daughter dare besmirch,
Who comes of noble lineage, through the church.”
He by the Adam’s apple seized Alain,
Who grabbed him, that he might repay the pain,
And with his fist smote Simkin on the nose;
Down ran a bloody stream, that stained his clothes;
And on the floor, with teeth and noses broke,
They wallow, as do two pigs in a poke.
First up they go, then down each other knock,
Until the miller stumbles on a rock.
He falls upon his wife down backwards hard,
Who knew not why in foolish strife they sparred;
For she just recently to sleep had gone,
After she’d been awake all night with John,
And with his fall out of her sleep she woke.
“Help! Holy cross of Bromeholm,” thus she spoke.
“In your hands! Lord, unto thee I’m a-callin’
Simon, awake! A fiend on me has fallen.
My heart is broken! I’m as good as dead!
One lies upon my womb, one on my head.
Help, Simkin, for these foolish clerks here fight.”

John jumped up; since there was but little light,
With both hands on the walls, around he gropes;
To find himself a nice long staff, he hopes.
Better than he, she knows her way around;
Leaning against the wall a staff she found.
She saw a little glimmering of light,
For through a little crack the moon shone bright,
And by that light she saw them move about,
Though who was who she couldn’t quite make out.
But then a little white thing caught her eye;
She thought that she the night cap did espy,
That she remembered seeing on Alain.
And raising high the staff, prepared to brain
This clerk with all her power, but instead
She whacked the miller on his shiny head
So hard that down he went, and cried, “I’m dead!”
These clerks, while he is down, the miller flail,
Then dress, get on their horse, and hit the trail.
Pausing, to grab their flour they do not fail,
And stopping at the mill they also take
That half a bushel baked into a cake.

Thus very low the miller’s pride is laid.
For grinding all their wheat he won’t get paid,
And for their supper he absorbed the cost.
Alain and John won big, while Simkin lost.
Alain his daughter screwed; John soiled his sheets.
Things like this happen when a miller cheats!
This proverb is quite true, men like to tell:
“You won’t see heaven if you act like hell.”
Hoist on his own petard, a thief shall be.
May God, who sits enthroned in majesty,
Bless all this party with his saving grace!
My tale has put the miller in his place.