59r] 5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 75 80 85 90 95 100    105 110 115 120 125 59v] 130 135 140 145 150 155 160

Chaunter m’estoit, Mon cuer le voit, En un dure langage. Tut en ploraunt Fust fet le chaunt De nostre duz baronage, Qe pur la pees (Si loynz aprés) Se lesserent detrere, Lur cors trencher E demenbrer, Pur salver Engletere.    Ore est ocys,    La flur de pris,    Qe taunt savoit de guere;    Ly quens Mountfort,    Sa dure mort    Molt en plorra la terre. Si com je qui, Par un mardi Firent la bataile; Tot a cheval Fust le mal, Sauntz nulle pedaile. Tres malement Y ferirent De le espie forbie, Qe la part Sire Edward Conquist la mestrie.    Ore est ocis,    La flur de pris,    Qe taunt savoit de guere;    Ly quens Mountfort,    Sa dure mort    Molt en plorra la terre. Mes par sa mort Le cuens Mountfort Conquist la victorie. Come ly martyr De Caunterbyr, Finist sa vie. Ne voleit pas, Li bon Thomas, Qe perist seinte Eglise. Ly cuens auxi Se combati E morust sauntz feyntise.    Ore est ocys,    La flur de pris,    Qe taunt savoit de guere;    Ly quens Mountfort,    Sa dure mort    Molt en plorra la terre. Sire Hue le fer Ly Despencer, Tres noble justice, Ore est a tort Lyvré a mort, A trop male guise, Sire Henri (Pur veir le dy), Fitz le cuens de Leycestre,      Autres assez, Come vous orrez, Par le cuens de Gloucestre.    Ore est ocis,    La flur de pris,    Qe taunt savoit de guere;    Ly quens Mountfort,    Sa dure mort    Molt en plorra la terre. Qe voleint moryr E mentenir La pees e la dreyture, Le seint martir Lur fra joyr, Sa conscience pure. Qe velt moryr E sustenir Les honmes de la terre, Son bon desir Acomplir, Quar bien le quidom fere.    Ore est ocys,    La flur de pris,    Qe taunt savoit de guere;    Ly quens Mountfort,    Sa dure mort    Molt en plorra la terre. Pres de son cors (Le bon tresors) Une heyre troverent. Les faus ribaus Tant furent maus, E ceux qe le tuerent. Molt fust pyr Qe demenbryr Firent le prodhonme Qe de guerrer E fei tener, Si bien savoit la sonme.    Ore est ocys,    La flur de pris,    Qe taunt savoit de guere;    Ly quens Mountfort,    Sa dure mort    Molt en plorra la terre. Priez touz, Mes amis douz, Le fitz seinte Marie, Qe l’enfant, Her puissant, Meigne en bone vie. Ne vueil nomer Li escoler (Ne vueil qe l’em die), Mes pur l’amour Le Salveour, Priez pur la clergie.    Ore est ocys,    La flur de pris,    Qe tant savoit de guere;    Ly quens Montfort,    Sa dure mort    Molt en plurra la terre. Ne say trover rien Qu’il firent bien, Ne baroun ne counte, Les chivalers E esquiers. Touz sunt mys a hounte Pur lur lealté E verité, Que tut est anentie. Le losenger Purra reigner, Le fol pur sa folie.    Ore est ocis,    La flur de pris,    Qe taunt savoit de guere;    Ly quens Mountfort,    Sa dure mort    Molt en plorra la terre. Sire Simoun, Ly prodhom, E sa compagnie En joie vont En ciel amount En pardurable vie. Mes Jesu Crist Qe en croyz se mist, Dieu, enprenge cure Qe sunt remis E detenuz En prisone dure.    Ore est ocys,    La flur de pris,    Qe taunt savoit de guere;    Ly quens Mountfort,    Sa dure mort    Molt en plorra la terre.

Sing I must, My heart wishes it, In a sorrowful strain. Entirely in tears Was made the song Of our gentle baronage, Who for the sake of peace (So long deferred) Let themselves be destroyed, Their bodies hacked And dismembered, To save England.    Now he is slain,    The flower of fame,    Who knew so much of war;    The Earl Montfort,    His cruel death    The land will deeply mourn. As I believe, On a Tuesday They fought the battle; All on horseback Was the disaster, Without any foot soldiers. Very poorly They struck blows there With burnished sword, So that the side Of Lord Edward Won the mastery.    Now he is slain,    The flower of fame,    Who knew so much of war;    The Earl Montfort,    His cruel death    The land will deeply mourn. But by his death The Earl Montfort Won the victory. Like the martyr Of Canterbury, He concluded his life. He did not wish, The good Thomas, That Holy Church should perish. The count also Entered combat And died without deceit.    Now he is slain,    The flower of fame,    Who knew so much of war;    The Earl Montfort,    His cruel death    The land will deeply mourn. The fierce Sir Hugh The Despenser, Most noble justiciar, Now is wrongly Delivered to death, In a most shameful way, And Sir Henry (To tell the truth), Son of the Earl of Leicester, And many others, As you will hear, By the Earl of Gloucester.    Now he is slain,    The flower of fame,    Who knew so much of war;    Count Montfort,    His cruel death    The land will deeply mourn. Those willing to die And maintain Peace and righteousness, The holy martyr Will bring them joy, His conscience clean. Whoever’s willing to die And sustain The men of the land, His good desire To accomplish, We think he does quite well.    Now he is slain,    The flower of fame,    Who knew so much of war;    The Earl Montfort,    His cruel death    The land will deeply mourn. Near his body (The good treasure), They found a hair shirt. The false knaves Were so wicked, And those who slew him. It was even worse That they dismembered The worthy man Who understood fighting And keeping faith, Everything so well.    Now he is slain,    The flower of fame,    Who knew so much of war;    The Earl Montfort,    His cruel death    The land will deeply mourn. Pray all of you, My gentle friends, To blessed Mary’s son, That the child, The powerful heir, Be led to a good life. I will not name The youth (I don’t wish it said), But for the love Of the Savior, Pray for the clergy.    Now he is slain,    The flower of fame,    Who knew so much of war;    The Earl Montfort,    His cruel death    The land will deeply mourn. I can find nothing That they did right, Neither baron nor earl, The knights And squires. All are brought low On account of their loyalty And truthfulness, Entirely come to nought. The flatterer Will be able to reign, The fool through his folly.    Now he is slain,    The flower of fame,    Who knew so much of war;    The Earl Montfort,    His cruel death    The land will deeply mourn. Sir Simon, The worthy man, And his company Proceed in joy In heaven above In everlasting life. But may Jesus Christ Who put himself on cross, God, take care Of those confined And detained In harsh prison.    Now he is slain,    The flower of fame,    Who knew so much of war;    The Earl Montfort,    His cruel death    The land will deeply mourn.

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