Obrazy na stronie
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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 steal fruit,

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.

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And where pou comyft, with gode chere
In halle or bowre, bydde "god be here !"
Loke pou caft to no mannes dogge,
With ftaff ne ftone at hors ne hogge;
Loke pat pou not fcorne ne iape
Noper with man, maydyn, ne ape;
Lete no man of pee make playnt;
28 Swere pou not by god noper by faynt.
Loke pou be curteys ftondyng at mete;
And þat men zeuyth pee, pou take & ete;
And loke that pou nother crye ne crave,
And fay "that and that wold y have;"
But ftond pou ftylle be-fore pe borde,
And loke pou fpeke no lowde worde.
And, chyld, wyrfhep thy fader and thy moder,
And loke pat pou greve noper on ne oper,
But euer among pou fhalt knele adowne,
And afke here bleffyng and here benefowne.
And, chyld, kepe thy clopes fayre & clene,
And lete no fowle fylth on hem be fene.
Chyld, clem pou not ouer hows ne walle
For no frute, bryddes, ne balle;

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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,
48 Kepe pee fro many wordes and yangelyng.
And, chyld, whan pou goft to play,

Loke pou come home by lyght of day.
And, chyld, I warne the of a-noþer mater,
52 Loke pou kepe pee wel fro fyre and water;
And be ware and wyfe how pat pou lokys
Quer any brynk, welle, or brokys;

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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,
And per-to be bete on pe bare ers.
Chyld, be pou lyer noper no theffe ;
64 Be pou no mecher2 for myfcheffe.

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Chyld, make pou no mowys ne knakkes
Be-fore no men, ne by-hynd here bakkes,
But be of fayre femelaunt and contenaunce,
For by fayre manerys men may þee a-vaunce.
Chyld whan pou goft yn eny ftrete,

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,
80 For owre byfchop is an old man,
And per-for pou moft lerne faft

Iff pou wolt be byffhop when he is past.
Chyld, y bydde pe on my bleffyng

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
and wish 'em
"god speed."

Be meek to
clerks.

Rise early,
go to school,

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,
88 A leve chyld, lore he be-houyth;
And as men fayth pat ben leryd,

He hatyth pe chyld þat fparyth pe rodde;
And as pe wyfe man fayth yn his boke

92 Off prouerbis and wyfedomes, ho wol loke,
"As a fharppe fpore makyth an hors to renne.
Vnder a man that fhold werre wynne,

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.']

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On monday in the mornyng whañ I shall rise
at vj. of the clok,3 hyt is the gise

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!

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My master pepered my ars with well good spede:
hit was worse thañ ffynkll sede ;

he wold not leve till it did blede.
Myche sorow haue be for his dede!
what vaylith it me thowgh I say nay?

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