The Wife of Beith (13)
THE
WIFE of BEITH,
Reformed and Corrected.
PAISLEY:
Printed by J. Neilson.
1811.
THE
WIFE OF BEITH.
In Beith once dwelt a worthy wife,
Of whom brave Chaucer mention makes:
She lived a licentious life,
And namely in venereal acts;
But death did come for all her cracks:
When years were spent and days out-driven,
Then suddenly she sickness takes,
Deceas'd forthwith, and went to heaven.
But as the went upon the way,
There follow'd her a certain guide,
And kindly to her did he say,
Where mean you, dame, for to abide?
I know you are the wife of Beith,
And would not then that you go wrong,
For I'm your friend, and will be leath
That you go through this narrow throng:
This way is broader, go with me,
And very pleasant is the way:
I'll bring you there, where you would be,
Go with me, friend, say me not nay.
She looked on him, then did speer,
⟨I⟩ pray you, Sir, what is your name?
show me the way how you came here?
To tell to me it is no shame.
Is that a favour 'bout your neck?
And what is that upon your side?
I knew you by your colours first,
Is it a bag, or silver sack?
What are you then? where do you bide?
I was a servant unto Christ,
And Judas likewise is my name.
Forsooth indeed you are to blame:
Your Master did you not betray?
And hang yourself when you had done?
Where'er you bide I will not stay:
To then, you knave, let me alone.
Whatever I be, I'll be your guide,
Because ye know not well the way,
Had ye but once in me confide,
And do all friendship that I may.
What would you me? where do you dwell?
Have no will to go with thee:
Fear it is some lower cell,
Pray thee therefore let me be.
This is a stormy night and cold,
⟨I⟩ bring you to a warm inn:
All ye go forward and behold,
And mend your pace till ye win in.
I'm fear'd your inn it be to warm,
For too much hotness is not best:
Such hotness there may do me harm,
And keep me that I do not rest:
I know your way, it is to hell,
For you are none of the eleven :
Go haste you then unto your cell,
My way is only unto heaven.
That way is by the gates of heil,
If you intend there for to go.
Go, dame, I will not you compel,
But I with you will go also,
Where smoke and darkness did abound,
And pick and sulphur burned still,
With yells and cries, hills did rebound,
The fiend himself came to the gate,
And asked him where he had been?
Do ye not know and have forgot,
Seeking this wife could not be seen.
Good dame, he said, would you be here,
I pray you then tell me your name?
The wife of Beith, since that you speer,
But to come in I were to blame.
I will not have you here, good dame,
For you were mistress of the flyting,
If once within this gate you come,
I will be troubled with your biting.
Cummer, go back, and let me be,
Here are too many of your rout:
For women lewd like unto thee,
I cannot turn my foot about.
Sir thief, I say, I shall bide out,
But gossip thou wait ne'er to me:
For to come in, I'm not so stout:
And of my biting thou'll be free,
But, Lucifer, what's that on thee,
Hast thou no water in this place?
Thou look'st so black, it seems to me
Thou ne'er dost wash thy ugly face.
If we had water for to drink,
We should not care for washing then:
Into these flames and filthy stink,
We burn with fire unto the doom:
Upbraid me then, goodwife, no more,
For first when I heard of the name,
I knew thou hast such words in store,
Would make the devil to think shame.
Forsooth, Sir thief, thou art to blame,
if I had time now for to bide:
Once you were well, but may think shame,
That lost heaven for rebellious pride:
Who traitor-like fell with the rest,
Because you would not be content,
And now of bliss are dispossest,
Without all grace for to repent.
Thou mad'st poor Eve for to consent
To eat of the forbidden tree:
(Which we poor daughters may relent)
And made as almost like to thee:
But God be blest who past thee by,
And did a Saviour provide
For Adam's whole posterity,
All those who do in him confide.
Adieu false fiend, I may not bide,
With thee I may no longer stay:
My God in death he was my guide,
O'er hell I'll get the victory.
Then up the hill the poor wife went,
Opprest with stinking flames and fear:
Weeping right fore, with great relent,
For to go else she wist not where
A narrow way with thorns and briers,
And full of mires was her before:
She sighed oft with sobs and tears,
The poor wife's heart was wondrous sore:
Tir'd and torn she went on still,
Sometimes she sat, and sometimes fell,
Aye till she came to a high hill,
And then she looked back to hell.
When that she had climb'd up the hill,
Before her was a goodly plain;
Where she did rest and weep her fill,
Then rose and to her feet again.
Her heart was glad, the way was good,
Up to the hill she hy'd with haste,
The flowers were fair, where that she stood;
The fields were pleasant to her taste.
Then she spied Jerusalem,
On Sion's mount where that it stood;
Shining with gold light as the sun,
Her silly soul was then right glad;
The ports were pearls shining bright,
Glorious it was for to behold,
With precious stones gave such a light,
The walls were of transparent gold.
High were the walls, the gates were shut,
And long she thought for to be in;
But then for fear of biding out,
She knocked hard and made some din.
To knock and cry she did not spare,
Till father Adam did her hear;
Who is't that raps so rudely there,
Heaven cannot will be won by weir.
The wife of Beith, since that you speer,
Hath stood these two hours at the gate.
Go back, quoth he, thou must forbear,
Here may no sinners entrance get.
Adam, quoth she, I shall be in,
In spite of all such churls as thee;
Thou'rt the original of all sin,
For eating of the forbidden tree;
For which thou art not flyting free,
But for thy soul offences fled.
Adam went back and let her be;
Looking as if his nose had bled.
Then mother Eve did at him speer,
Who was it there that made such din
He said a women would be here,
For me I durst not let her in.
I'll go, said she, and ask her will,
Her company I would have fain;
But aye she cried, and knocked still,
And in no ways she would refrain.
Daughter, said Eve, you will do well,
And come again another time;
Heaven is not won by sword or steel,
Nor none that's guilty of a crime,
Mother, said she, the fault is thine,
That knocking here so long I stand;
Thy guilt is more than that of mine,
If thou wilt rightly understand,
Thou wast the cause of all our sin,
Wherein we're born and conceiv'd,
Our misery thou didst begin,
By thee thy husband was deceiv'd.
Eve went back where Noah was,
And told him all how she was blam'd,
Of her great sin and first trespass,
Whereof she was so much asham'd.
Then Noah said, I will go down,
And will forbid her that the knock;
Go back, he said, ye drunken lown,
You're none of the celestial flock.
Noah, she said, hold thou thy peace,
Where I drank ale, thou didst drink wine,
Discovered was to thy disgrace,
When thou wast full like to a swine:
If I was drunk I learn'd at thee,
For thou'rt the father and the first,
That others taught, and likewise me,
To drink when as we had no thirst.
Then Noah turned back with speed
And told the Patriarch Abra'am then,
How that the carling made him dread,
And how she all his deeds did ken.
Abraham, then said, now get you gone,
Let as no more hear of your din;
No lying wife as I suppone,
May enter in these gates within.
Abraham, she said, will you but spare,
I hope you are not flyting free;
You of yourself had such a care,
Deny'd your wife and made a lie:
Oh then I pray you let me be,
For I repent of all my sin,
Do thou but open the gates to me,
And let me quietly come in.
Abraham went back to Jacob then,
And told his nephew how he seed,
How that of her nothing he wan,
And that he thought the carling mad.
Then down came Jacob thro' the closs,
And said, go backward down to hell :
Jacob, quoth she, I know thy voice,
That gate pertaineth to thy fell :
Of thy old trumperies I can tell,
With two sisters thou led'st thy life,
And the third part of these tribes twelve,
Thou got with maids besides thy wife :
And stole thy father's bennison,
Only by fraud thy father free:
Gave thou not him for venison,
A kid, instead of baken rae.
Jacob himself was tickled so,
He went to Lot where he was lying
And to the gate pray'd him to go,
To staunch the carling of her crying.
Lot says, fair dame, make less a do,
And come again another day.
Old harlot carle, and drunkard too,
Thou with thine own two daughters lay,
Of thine untimely seed I say,
Proceeded never good but ill.
Poor Lot, for shame, then stole away,
And left the wife to knock her fill.
Meek Moses then went down at last,
To pacify the carling then;
Now, dame, said he, knock not so fast,
Your knocking will not let you ben.
Good Sir, she said, I am aghast,
When that I look you in the face;
If that your law till now had last,
Then surely I had ne'er got grace:
But, Moses, Sir, now by your leave,
Although in heaven thou be possest,
For all you saw, did not believe,
But in Horeb there transgrest,
Wherefore by all it is confest,
You got but once the land to see,
And in the mount was put to rest,
Yea buried there, where you did die.
Moses meekly turned back,
And told his brother Aaron there,
How that the carling did so crack,
And in no ways did him forbear.
Then Aaron said, I will not swear,
But I'll conjure her as I can:
And I will make her now forbear,
So that she shall not rap again.
Then Aaron said, you whorish wife,
To get you gone and rap no more;
With idols you have led your life,
Or then you shall repent it sore.
Good Aaron Priest, I know you well,
The golden calf you may remember,
Who made the people plagues to see,
This is of you recorded ever:
Your Prieshood now is nothing worth,
Christ is my only priest, and he,
My Lord, who will not keep me forth,
So I'll get in, in spite of thee.
Up started Samson at the length,
Unto the gate apace came he,
To drive away the wife with strength
But all in vain it would not be.
Samson, quoth she, the world may see,
Thou wast a Judge who prov'd unjust,
Those gracious gifts which God gave thee,
Thou lost their by licentious lust.
From Dalila thy wicked wife,
The secrets chief couldst not refrain,
She daily fought to take thy life,
Thou lost thy locks and then was slain,
Tho' thou wast strong it was in vain,
Haunting with harlots here and there.
Then Samson turned back again,
And with the wife would mell no mair.
Then said King David, knock no more,
We are all troubled with your cry.
David, quoth she, how cam'st thou there,
Thou might'st bide out as well as I:
Thy deeds no ways thou can'st deny,
Is not thy sin far worse than mine,
Who with Uriah's wife did ly,
And caus'd him to be murder'd syne?
Then Judith said, who's there that knocks
And to our neighbours gives these notes?
Madam, said she, let be your mocks,
I came not here for cutting throats:
I am a sinner full of blots,
Yet through Christ's blood I shall be clean,
If you and I be judg'd by votes,
The thing you did was worse than mine.
Then said the sapient Solomon,
Thou art a sinner all men say,
Therefore our Saviour I suppone,
Thee heavenly entrance will deny.
Mind, quoth she, thy latter days,
What idol Gods thou didst upset,
And was so lewd in Venus plays,
Thou didst thy Maker quite forget.
Then Jonas said, fair dame, content you,
If you intend to come to grace,
You must dree penance and repent you,
Ere you can come within this place.
Jonas, quoth she, how stands the case?
How came you here to be with Christ?
How dare you look him in the face?
Considering how you broke your tryst?
To go God's errand thou withstoodst him,
And held his counsel in disdain;
The Raven messenger thou play'dst him,
And brought no message back again:
With mercy thou wast not content,
When that the Lord he did them spare;
Although the city did repent,
It grieved thee, thy heart was fair:
Let me alone and speak no more,
Go back again into the whale,
For now my heart is also sore,
But yet I hope I shall prevail.
Good Jonas said, crack on your sill,
For here I may no longer tarry,
Yet knock as long as e'er ye will,
And go unto the fiery fairy
Jonas, she says, do ye miscarry,
As I have done in former time,
You're not saint Peter nor faint Marys,
Thy blot's as black as ever mine.
So Jonas then he was asham'd,
Because he was not flyting free,
Of all his faults she had him blam'd,
He left the wife and let her be.
Saint Thomas then, I counsel thee
Go speak unto yon wicked wife,
She shames us all, and as for me,
Her like I never heard in life.
Thomas, then said, you make such strife,
When you are out and meikle din,
If ye were here I'll lay my life,
No peace the saints will get within:
It is your trade for to be flyting,
Still in a fever as one raves,
No marvel though you wives be biting,
Your tongues are made of Aspen leaves.
Thomas, quoth she, let be your taunts,
You play the pick-thank I perceive,
Tho' you be brother'd 'mong the saints,
An unbeleving heart you have;
Thou brought'st the Lord unto the grave,
But would'st no more with him remain,
And wast the last of all the lave,
That did believe he rose again.
There might no doctrine do thee good,
No miracles make thee confide,
Till thou beheld Christ's wounds and blood.
And putt'st thy hands into his side;
Didst thou not daily with him bide,
And see the wonders which he wrought?
But blest are they who do confide,
And do believe yet saw him nought;
Thomas, she says, will ye but speer,
If that my sister Magdalen,
Will come to me if she be here:
For comforts sure you give me nane.
He was so blythe and turned back,
And thanked God that he was gane;
He had no will to hear her crack,
But told it Mary Magdalen.
When that she heard her sister's mocks,
She went unto the gate with speed:
And asked her who's there that knocks?
'Tis I the wife of Beith indeed.
She said, good mistress, you must stand
Till you be tried by tribulation.
Sister, quoth she, give me your hand,
Are we not both of one vocation?
It is not through your occupation
That you are placed so divine,
My faith is fixed on Christ's passion,
My soul shall be as far as thine.
Then Mary went away in haste,
The carling made her so ashamed
she had no will of such a guest,
To lose her pains and be so blamed.
Now good saint Paul, said Magdalen,
For that you are a learned man,
Go and convince this woman then,
For I have done all that I can:
Sure if she were in hell, I doubt
They would not keep her long there,
But to the gate would put her out;
And send her back to be elsewhere.
Then went the good apostle Paul,
To put the wife in better tune,
Wash off that filth which fyles thy soul,
Then shall heaven's gates be op'ned soon.
Remember, Paul, what thou hast done,
For all th' epistles thou didst compile,
Though now thou sittest up above,
Thou persecuted'st Christ a while.
Woman, he said, thou art not right,
That which I did, I did not know;
But thou didst sin with all thy might,
Although the preachers did thee show.
Saint Paul, she said, it is not so,
she did not know so well as ye,
That I will to my Saviour go,
Who will his favour show to me:
You think you are of flyting free,
Because you was rapt up above,
But yet it was Christ's grace to thee,
And matchlessness of his dear love.
Then Paul, says she, let Peter come,
If he be lying let him rise,
To him I will confess my sin,
And let him quickly bring the keys,
Too long I stand, he'll let me in,
For why I cannot longer tarry,
Then shall ye all be quit of din,
For I must speak with good saint Mary:
The good apostle discontent,
Right suddenly he turned back,
For he did very much repent,
To hear the carling proudly crack:
Paul says, good brother, now arise,
And make an end of all this din:
And if so be you have the keys,
Open and let the carling in.
Th' apostle Peter rose at last,
And to the gate with speed he hies,
Carling, quoth he, knock not so fast,
You cumber Mary with your cries.
Peter, she said, let Christ arise,
And grant me mercy in my need;
For why I ne'er deny'd him thrice,
As thou thyself hast done indeed.
Thou carling bold, what's that to thee
I got remission for my sin;
It cost many sad tears to me,
Before I entered here within.
It will not be thy meikle din
Will cause heaven's gates opened be
Thou must be purified of sin
And of all sins must be made free.
Saint Peter then, no thanks to you,
That so you were rid of your fears,
It was Christ's gracious look, I trow,
That made you weep those bitter tears.
The door of mercy is not clos'd,
I may get grace as well as ye,
It is not so as ye suppos'd,
It will be in in spite of thee.
But, wicked wife, it is too late,
Thou should'st have mourn'd upon earth,
Repentance now is out of date:
It should have been before thy death:
Thou mightest then have turned wrath
To mercy then, and mercy great,
But now the Lord is very loth,
And all thy cries not worth a jot.
Ah! Peter, then, what shall I do?
He will not hear me as I hear,
Shall I despair of mercy too!
No, no, I'll trust in mercy dear:
And if I perish, here I'll stay,
And never go from heaven bright:
I'll ever hope and always pray,
Until I get my Saviour's sight.
I think indeed you are now right,
If you had saith you could win in;
Importune then with all your might,
Faith is the feet wherewith ye come:
It is the hands will hold him fast,
But weak faith may not presume;
It will let you sink, and be aghast,
Strongly believe or you're undone.
But, good saint Peter, let me be,
Had you such faith, did it abound?
When you did walk upon the sea,
Was you not like for to be drown'd,
Had not our Saviour helped thee,
Who came and took thee by the hand?
So can my Lord do unto me,
And bring me to the promised land.
Is my faith weak? Yet he is still
The same and ever shall remain;
His mercies last and his good will,
To bring me to his flock again:
He will me help and me relieve,
And will increase my faith also,
If weakly I can but believe,
For from this place I'll never go.
But Peter said, how can that be:
How durst thou look him in the face,
Such horrid sinners like to thee,
Can have no courage to get grace:
Here none comes in but they that's stout,
And suffered have for the good cause;
Like unto thee are keeped out,
For thou hast broke all Moses' laws.
Peter, she said, I do appeal,
From Moses, and from thee also;
With him and you I'll not prevail,
But to my Saviour I will go:
Indeed of old you were right stout;
When you did cut off Malchus' ear;
But after that you went about:
And a poor maid then did you fear.
Wherefore, saint Peter, do forbear,
A comforter indeed you're not;
Let me alone I do not fear,
Take home the whistle of your groat:
Was it your own, or Paul's good sword,
When that your courage was so keen,
You was right stout upon my word,
Then would you fain at fishing been;
For at the crowing of the cock,
You did deny your master thrice,
For all your stoutness turn'd a block,
Now flyte no more if you be wife.
Yet at the last the Lord arose,
Environed with angels bright,
And to the wife in haste he goes,
Desir'd her soon pass out of sight.
O Lord, quoth she cause do me right,
But not according to my sin;
Have you not promis'd day and night,
When sinners knock to let them in.
He said thou wrests the scripture wrong,
The night is come, thou spent the day,
In whoredom thou hast lived long,
And to repent thou did'st delay;
Still my commandments thou abus'dst,
And vice committedst busily,
Since now my mercy thou refusd'st,
Go down to hell eternally.
O Lord, my soul doth testify,
That I have spent my life in vain;
Ah! make a wand'ring sheep of me,
And bring me to thy flock again.
Think'st thou there is no count to crave
Of all these gifts in thee was planted,
I gave thee beauty 'bove the lave,
A pregnant wit thou never wanted.
Master, quoth she, it must be granted,
My sins are great, give me contrition:
The forlorn son when he repented,
Obtain'd his father's full remission.
I spar'd my judgments many times,
And spiritual pastors did thee send;
But thou renewd'st thy former crimes,
Aye more and more me to offend.
My Lord, quoth she, I do amend,
Lamenting for my former vice,
The poor thief at the latter end,
For one word went to Paradise.
The thief heard never of my teachings,
My heavenly precepts and my laws,
But thou wast daily at my preachings,
Both heard and saw, and yet misknaws.
Master, quoth she, the scripture shows,
The Jewish woman which play'd the lown,
Conform unto the Hebrew laws,
Was brought to thee to be put down;
But nevertheless thou lett'st her go,
And made the Pharisees afraid.
Indeed, says Christ, it was right so,
And that my bidding was obey'd,
Woman, he said, I may not cast
The childrens bread to dogs like thee,
Although my mercies yet do last,
There's mercy here, but none for thee.
But, loving Lord, may I presume,
Poor worm, that I may speak again,
The dogs for hunger were undone,
And of the crumbs they were right fain.
Grant me one crumb then that doth fall
From thy best childrens' table, Lord,
That I may be refresh'd withal,
It will me help enough afford.
The gates of mercy now are clos'd,
And thou canst hardly enter in ;
It is not so as thou suppos'd,
For thou art deadly sick in sin.
'Tis true indeed, my Lord most meek,
My fore and sickness I do feel :
Yet thou the lame didst truly seek,
Who lay long at Bethseda's pool,
Of many that thee never fought,
Like to the poor Samaritan;
Whom thou unto thy fold hast brought,
Even as thou didst the widow of Nain;
Most gracious God, didst thou not bid
All that were weary come to thee,
Behold, I come! even overload
With sin, have mercy upon me.
The issues of thy soul are great,
Thou art both leprous and unclean,
To be with me thou art not fit,
Go from me then, let me alone
Let me thy garments once but touch,
My bloody issue shall be whole,
It will not cost thee very much,
To save a poor distressed soul,
Speak thou the word, I shall be whole,
One look of thee shall do me good,
Save now, good Lord, my silly soul,
Bought with thine own most precious blood,
Let me alone, none of my blood,
Was ever shed for such as thee,
It was my mercy, patience good,
Which from damnation made thee free.
It is confest thou hadst been just,
Altho' thou had condemned ne,
But O! thy mercies still do last,
To save the soul that trusts in thee;
Let me not then condemned be,
Most humbly, Lord, I thee request,
Of sinners all none like to me,
So much the more thy praise shall last.
Thy praising me is not persite,
My saints shall praise me evermore,
In sinners I have no delight,
Such sacrifice I do abhor.
Then she unto the Lord did say,
At foot-stool of thy grace I'll ly,
Sweet Lord my God, say me not nay,
For if I perish here I'll die.
Poor silly wretch, then speak no more,
Thy faith, poor soul, hath saved thee;
Enter thou in unto my glore,
And rest thro' all eternity.
How soon our Saviour these words said,
A long white robe to her was given;
And then the angels did her lead,
Forthwith within the gates of heaven:
A laurel crown set on her head,
Spangled with rubies and with gold:
⟨A⟩ bright white palm she always had,
Glorious it was for to behold:
⟨Her⟩ face did shine like to the sun,
⟨Like⟩ threads of gold her hair hang down,
⟨Her⟩ eyes like lamps unto the moon,
⟨Of⟩ precious stones rich was her crown.
Angels and saints did welcome her,
The heavenly quire did sing, rejoice ;
⟨King⟩ David with his harp was there :
The silver bells gave a great noise.
⟨Such⟩ music and such melody
⟨Was⟩ never either heard or seen,
⟨When⟩ this poor saint was plac'd so high,
And of all sins made freely clean:
⟨But⟩ then when thus she was possest,
And looked back on all her fears :
And that she was come to her rest,
⟨Free'd⟩ from her sins, and all her tears,
⟨She⟩ from her head did take the crown,
⟨Giving⟩ all praise to Christ on high,
And at his feet she laid it down
⟨For⟩ that the Lamb had made her free,
⟨Now⟩ doth she sing triumphantly,
⟨And⟩ shall rejoice for evermore,
⟨O'er⟩ death and hell victoriously,
⟨With⟩ lasting pleasures laid in store,
CONCLUSION.
Of Wife of Beith I make an end,
And do these lines with this conclude,
Let none their lives in sin now spend,
But watch and pray, be doing good.
Despondent souls, do not despair,
Repent, and still believe in Christ,
His mercies, which last evermore,
Will save the souls that in him trust.
FINIS.
J. Neilson, printer.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse