Don't throw stones at dogs and hogs. Mock at no one. Don't swear. Eat what's given you, and don't ask for this and that. Honour your father and mother: kneel and ask their blessing. Keep your clothes clean. Don't go bird's nesting, or throw stones at men's windows, or play in church. Don't chatter. Get home by daylight. Keep clear of fire and water, and the edges of wells and brooks. 24 And where pou comyft, with gode chere 32 36 40 And, chyld, caft no ftonys ouer men hows, 44 Ne caft no ftonys at no glas wyndowys; Ne make no crying, yapis, ne playes, In holy chyrche on holy dayes. And, chyld, y warne pee of anoper thynge, Loke pou come home by lyght of day. And when pou ftondyft at any fchate', 56 By ware and wyfe pat pou cacche no stake, For meny chyld with-out drede Ys dede or dyffeyuyd throw ywell hede. Chyld, kepe thy boke, cappe, and glouys, 60 And al thyng þat þee behouys; And but pou do, pou fhat fare the wors, 68 Chyld, make pou no mowys ne knakkes Iff pou eny gode man or woman mete, Avale thy hode to hym or to here, 72 And bydde, "god fpede dame or fere!" And be they fmalle or grete, This leffon pat pou not for-gete, For hyt is femely to euery mannys chylde,— 76 And namely to clerkes to be meke & mylde. And, chyld, ryfe by tyme and go to fcole, And fare not as Wanton fole, And lerne as fast as pou may and can, Iff pou wolt be byffhop when he is past. 84 That pou for-zete nat pis for no thyng, But pou loke, hold hyt wel on þy mynde, 1? meaning. Skathie, a fence. Jamieson. Skaith, hurt, harm. Halliwell. A mychare seems to denote properly a sneaking thief. Way. Prompt., p. 336. Mychare, a covetous, sordid fellow. Jamieson. Fr. pleure-pain: m. A niggardlie wretch; a puling micher or miser. Cotgrave. (leaf 175.) Take care of your book, cap, and gloves, or you'll be birched on your bare bottom. Don't be a liar or thief, or make faces at any man. When you meet any one, lower your hood Be meek to Rise early, and learn fast if you want to be our bishop. Attend to all these things, for a good child needs learning, leaf 175 b.) and he who hates the child spares the 101. As a spur makes a horse go, so a rod makes a child learn and be mild. So, children, do well, and you'll not get a sound beating. May God keep you good! For pe beft pu fhalt hyt fynde; For, as þe wyfe man fayth and preuyth, He hatyth pe chyld þat fparyth pe rodde; 92 Off prouerbis and wyfedomes, ho wol loke, Ryzt fo a zerde may make a chyld 96 To lerne welle hys leffon, and to be myld." Lo, chyldryn, here may 3e al here and fe How al chyldryn chaftyd fhold be; And perfor, chyldere, loke þat ye do well, 100 And no harde betyng shall ye be-falle : Thys may 30 al be ryght gode men. God graunt yow grace so to preferue yow. Amen! Symon. The Birched School-Boy OF ABOUT 1500 A.D. (From the Balliol MS. 354, ffl. ij C xxx.) [As old Symon talks of the rod (p. 400, 11. 90, 62), as Caxton in his Book of Curtesye promises his 'lytyl John' a breechless feast, or as the Oriel MS. reads it, a 'byrchely' one,' & as the Forewords have shown that young people did get floggings in olden time, it may be as well to give here the sketch of a boy, flea-bitten no doubt, with little bobs of hazel twigs, that Richard Hill has preserved for us. Boys of the present generation happily don't know the sensation of unwelcome warmth that a sound flogging produced, and how after it one had to sit on the bottom of one's spine on the edge of the hard form, in the position recommended at College for getting well forward in rowing. But they may rest assured that if their lot had fallen on a birching school, they'd have heartily joined the school-boy of 1500 in wishing his and their masters at the devil, even though they as truant boys had been 'milking ducks, as their mothers bade them.'] On monday in the mornyng whañ I shall rise 1 See Caxton's Book of Curtesye, in the Society's Extra Series, 1868. 2 Compare the very curious song on the difficulty of learning singing, in Reliquiæ Antiquæ, i. 291, from Arundel MS. 292, leaf 71, back. See Rhodes, p. 72, 1. 61; and Seager, p. 338, 1. 110. the birch twigs are so sharp. I'd sooner go 20 miles than go to school on Mondays. My master asks where I've been. 'Milking ducks,' I tell him, and he gives me pepper for it. I only wish he was a hare, and my book a wild cat, and all his books dogs. Would'nt I blow my horn! Don't I wish he was dead! My master pepered my ars with well good spede: he wold not leve till it did blede. |