Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

In Sanctandrois on Witsoun Monnunday,

Twa Campionis thare manheid did assay,

Past to the Barres, Enarmit heid and handis.

Wes neuer sene sic Iusting in no landis,

In presence of the Kingis grace and Quene,

Quhare mony lustie Lady mycht be sene.

Mony ane Knicht, Barroun, and baurent,

Come for to se that aufull Tornament.

The ane of thame was gentill Iames Watsoun,

And Iohne Barbour the vther Campioun:

Vnto the King thay war familiaris,

And of his Chalmer boith Cubicularis.

Iames was ane man of greit Intelligence,

Ane Medicinar, ful of Experience;

And Iohne Barbour, he was ane nobill Leche,

Crukit Carlingis he wald gar thame get speche.

Frome tyme they enterit war in to the feild,

Full womanlie thay weildit speir and scheild,

And wichtlie waiffit in the wynd thare heillis,

Hobland lyke Cadgeris rydand on thare creillis:

Bot ather ran at vther with sic haist,

That thay could neuer thair speir get in the reist.

Quhen gentil Iames trowit best with Iohne to meit,

His speir did fald amang his horssis feit.

I am rycht sure gude Iames had bene vndone,

War not that Iohne his mark tuke be the mone.

(Quod Iohne) howbeit thou thinkis my leggis lyke rokkis,

My speir is gude: now keip the fra my knokkis.

Tary (quod Iames) ane quhyle, for, be my thrift,

The feind ane thing I can se bot the lift.

Nor more can I (quod Iohne) be goddes breid:

I se no thing except the steipill heid.

Yit thocht thy braunis be lyk twa barrow trammis,

Defend the, man. Than ran thay to, lyk rammis.

At that rude rink, Iames had bene strykin doun,

Wer not that Iohne for feirsnes fell in swoun;

And rychtso Iames to Iohne had done greit deir,

Wer not amangis his hors feit he brak his speir.

(Quod Iames) to Iohne, yit for our ladyis saikis,

Lat vs to gidder straik thre market straikis.

I had (quod Iohne) that sall on the be wrokin;

But or he spurrit his hors, his speir wes brokin.

From tyme with speiris none could his marrow meit,

Iames drew ane sweird, with ane rycht auful spreit,

And ran til Iohne, til haif raucht him ane rout.

Iohnis swerd was roustit, & wald no way cum out.

Than Iames leit dryfe at Iohne with boith his fystis;

He mist the man, & dang vpon the lystis,

And with that straik, he trowit that Iohn was slane,

His swerd stak fast, and gat it neuer agane.

Be this gude Iohne had gottin furth his swerd,

And ran to Iames with mony aufull word:

My furiousnes forsuith now sall thow find.

Straikand at Iames, his swerd flew in the wind.

Than gentill Iames began to crak greit wordis,

Allace (quod he) this day for falt of swordis.

Than ather ran at vther with new raicis,

With gluifis of plait thay dang at vtheris facis.

Quha wan this feild, no creature could ken,

Till, at the last, Iohne cryit, fy, red the men.

Ye, red (quod Iames) for that is my desyre,

It is ane hour sen I began to tyre.

Sone be thay had endit that royall rink,

Into the feild mycht no man stand for stink.

Than euery man that stude on far cryit, fy,

Sayand, adew, for dirt partis cumpany.

Thare hors, harnes, and all geir was so gude,

Louyng to God, that day was sched no blude.