Miles Millpond. Poet, Peasant and Mystic

 

Stunningly little is known of Miles Millpond. Only two of his poems survive; the rest is a tantalising blend of folklore and unconfirmed tales of his wanderings up and down the country. He may have taken part in the Peasants’ Revolt of 1381; he may have been otherwise occupied. Who knows? His surviving work is presented here in full. The identity of the lady in this early tapestry is unknown. milesmillpond

 

THE SHARROWS POOL

Cum squirley fronde, and mak us to th’town
For Saturdaye the eve is mishieve made
Ond pull we meight, a payre of slapperes down
Ye Club, which art for pleassieurs gettynge layed.

Halfland, stoole ‘n fauncey, trippyinge lowe,
Groolyn scroot verkomm ye krakense klarne
That mak’s withal thy feete ond fyngeres glowe,
Anent yon mayden givv’n lengthye spanne!

Thrayles ye faunings, of yon krinnon glaydes -
Ond fraunce fir komminge offa awl th’playce -
Maund gutte ye owte frem hear, whan awl thou makst
Art bellowinge thro’ all th’livelonge nyghte.

Wot art esplawle a couche thee wot not of,
Whan cometh morn ond thou art overhongye,
Ov grayte excess, ond laagyr layced ov meade -
Whome feycke’knoweth wot vagabonde hath pawred.

Ne maire anon, we seth unto oursalve.
Fro’ this daye on shalt pysse-oppe be eschewed.
But wot ye well, anonder tyme shall comme,
Whan sayke, the Sharrows Poole beckonne agayne.

 

THE TRELLION CRAYDE. (Millpond’s acknowledged masterpiece.)


O standynge freyles, stun the fuddok tryll,
Ond sleeks ye craylle, anont in savayge squalle,
Till even startlyngs make yon Hever styll,
Tho’ come the dullards - sayke be finders all.

Ye grayte deckirtle slapes all sooth behond
Ov flabbeous cruste, crirks thyne able nonce
On furroks olde thyes, a-swean, purladen fayles
Horrone thie wymploes, curtayne webyn payles
Ond lashes buttockes clemped agin the stroke
Whome mayk this dastarde flaylinge on ye bloke,
As may beseem to onders harde as nayles -
But ith for’all a paunce, which anye meight,
On quaintance be a wyser yet withoulden -
Come the day,
Of burdgeon crappies althe flixten thway!

Fathon patruel seaks ons fratarnyse,
Anent thyne laigens, crawled oft towardes
In thixtion tramble, or thee vipar’s pryse,
Yon greelen craydiss, pylpher halftnes fawles.

Ketreen, greight hofmeade, parten on theigh wayke.
Ond mask ye empreous clavir - styll an bryde,
As nonce in cumbrance sayne weir herynsayke,
The Trellion Crayde cam lastynge on the tyde.

O thuggeous muggir wath ye baysebawl batte
And cowardleigh wayse, thou cans’t nat crunden ought
To mayke aweigh whan grabbe ye ons th’ balles
Ond maks to squeil that waye - yon gleafull thoughte!

O skeffly squanderer a-sprawl yon laydie’s couch
Wence chypped potatose scatter aul arounde,
Denounce yo’ nayture fro’ ye Vagabonde,
Who mayketh fo’ hisself wyth sweaty hande…
This scrofulous wastrel - ‘spised of eavry manne!