Bidde we God ant oure Ledy,
To thilke blisse Jesus us sende. Amen.
Translation.—All that are true of heart,—a while hearken to my song,—of grief that death hath wrought us now,—which makes me sigh and sorrow in turns.—Of a knight that was so powerful,—on whom God hath done his will;—methinks that death has done us wrong,—that he so soon shall lie still.
All England ought to know—of whom the song is that I sing;—of Edward the king that lies so low,—through all this world his name sprang.—Trewest man of all things,—and in war wary and wise,—for him we ought our hands to wring,—of Christendom he bare the prize.
Before that our king was dead,—he spoke as one that was in care,—“Clergy, knights, barons,” he said,—“I charge you by your oath,—that ye to England be true.—I die, I may not live any more;—help my son, and crown him now,—for he is next to be chosen.
“I bequeath my heart rightly,—that it be written at my devise,—over the sea that it be sent,—with fourscore knights all of repute,—in war that are wary and wise,—against the heathen for to fight,—to win the cross which lies low;—myself I would [go] if I could.”
King of France, thou hadst sin,—that thou shouldest seek counsel,—to hinder the will of King Edward—to go to the Holy Land:—that our king had taken in hand—all England to rule and teach,—to go into the Holy Land,—to win us heaven’s bliss.
The messenger to the pope came,—and said that our king was dead:—to his own hand the letter he took,—truly his heart was very full:—the pope himself the letter read,—and spake a word of great honour,—“Alas!” he said, “is Edward dead?—of Christendom he bare the flower!”
The pope to his chamber went,—he could speak no more for grief;—and after the cardinals he sent,—who knew much of Christ’s doctrine,—both the less and also the greater,—bade them both read and sing;—great grief might be seen there,—many a man to wring his hands.
The pope of Poitiers stood at his mass,—with very great solemnity,—there they began to bless the soul:—“King Edward, honoured be thou!—God give thy son, who comes after thee,—to bring to end what thou hast begun;—the holy cross made of wood,—so fain thou wouldst it have won.