Foxes

Misericord supporter: Beverley Minster.

 

A WILY WARNING: The poems attached to images in this set are based on the mediaeval French romances of Reynard the Fox. As mediaeval people had a much more bawdy approach to life than we do, some people may find the content of the poems rather offensive. They contain swearing, sex, sacrilege, violence, and sometimes a combination of all four. Sorry.

 

REYNARD AND THE DYER

 

Hear ye Noble’s proclamation:

“Be it known throughout the nation

That Reynard’s wiles are beyond reason;

He hath committed highest treason,

For that fox has tried to knock

The royal block off with a rock!

Catch the brute; chop off his head!

We shall not rest until he’s dead!”

 

Chorus:

Reynard, Reynard, dressed in yellow,

Really looks a dapper fellow,

For he is yellower than a cheetah

From the plains of Tanganyika!

Yellow, yellow, dressed in yellow,

“Where is Reynard?” the creatures bellow.

No colouration’s more exotic,

And poor King Noble’s gone neurotic!

 

“Oh cripes!” says Reynard, “Must I live

Like a wretched fugitive,

Sought after by a thousand eyes?

O! Would that I had some disguise

To make me look less like Reynard!

If I were spotted, like a ‘pard,

Or wore a mane like our good King -

I could escape from anything!

 

And now Reynard is feeling famished;

“‘Tis cruel hard, thus to be banished!”

And to the town he goes to steal

Himself a decent, wholesome meal.

Off to the dyer’s house he scurries;

Reynard grins and says, “No worries!

The dyer’s well known for a glutton;

I’ll hop inside and steal his mutton!”

 

Through the window Reynard leaps

While the dyer snores and sleeps;

The little mice watch Reynard fly

Into a vat of yellow dye.

He scrabbles hard and swims around,

Drenched to the bone and almost drowned;

The dyer with a yawn awakes,

“What’s all this noise, for goodness sakes!”

 

“A yellow creature’s in the vat!”

Cries the dyer, “Well ! Fancy that!

Today, it seems, I am a winner,

For I shall have it for my dinner!”

But Reynard grins; he says, “Oh no!

For I’m a dyer too, you know!

This dye was rather poorly mixed,

But two more laps and the problem’s fixed!”

 

Then Reynard gave a happy shout,

“Well, come on dyer, pull me out!

Hurry up, you slothful fellow!”

And he hauls out the creature yellow.

It shakes itself, with utmost grace,

Aims a fart at the dyer’s face,

Then through the doorway Reynard flies,

Still hungry, but in fine disguise.

 

GALOPIN AND THE FIDDLE

 

Wily Reynard trots along disguised with yellow dye,

When upon the path in front Isengrin doth he spy,

Isengrin’s turned bounty hunter, he’s looking mean and grim,

But plucky Reynard wags his tail, and thus addresses him:

“Godhelp, good sir! Owdyousay? Me no speak your lingo.

Mein name ist Galopin! Ja! Galopin zer dingo!”

 

Chorus:

How much d’you think a fiddle’s worth?

Two balls in a hairy bag?

Then you can dance like buggery

And never have a shag.

 

“What is your trade, good Galopin?” enquires Isengrin;

“Je suis minstrel,” says Reynard, “mais je suis getting thin!”

“And why is that, good minstrel?” the wolf asks Galopin,

“O! Ich hath lost mein fiddle! Achtung! Je suis fin!”

And Reynard weeps such piteous tears, it breaks the brave wolf’s heart,

“Oh I will find a fiddle for you!” “Och! Lupus grand thou art!”

 

And on their way they’re trotting, their proud tails held upright;

Their pouting arseholes in the air, an extraordinary sight.

Isengrin says, “By the way, I don’t suppose you’ve seen

A nasty fellow with red hair, and yellow canines keen?”

“Streuth mate! Nein ich hath not!” Galopin replies,

“Je ne meet pas any Vulpes! Cross heart und hope I dies!”

 

At last they find a lonely hut, and in goes Isengrin,

The wolf creeps silently around the sleeping men within.

He finds the fiddle. “Galopin! A violin for you!”

And quietly he helps himself to a goodly pot of stew.

“Aye,” then whispers Galopin, “Me laikum you ein lot!”

But underneath his breath he says, “You fat moronic clot!”

 

And Reynard thinks, “Ha! Now’s my chance to do the bugger in!”

He pulls the door to, and he locks it on poor Isengrin.

“A wolf!” then cries the man within, “I’ll tan its wretched hide!”

And Reynard laughs his socks off, and runs away outside.

The wolf bites on the fellow’s bum, his buttock fiercely mauls,

But a shaggy wolfhound leaps upon him, worrying his balls.

 

They stretch and strain, they grit their teeth, tears come to their eyes

And at the mauling of his arse the stricken peasant cries;

The wolfhound growls and shakes its head, its wrath will not be sated,

Until at last the balls fall off: Isengrin castrated.

And he lets forth unholy howl and bashes out the door

And trails bits of bleeding scrotum on the forest floor.

 

That night, as Hersent lies in bed, he creeps between the covers;

“Oh Isengrin,” his lady pants, “Oh randiest of lovers!

Do it to me doggy style! I’m feeling highly sexed!”

Isengrin gives a little whine, looking somewhat vexed.

She makes a grab between his legs, her hands close on thin air.

No more nooky ever after! Dismayed, unhappy pair!

 

HERSENT'S LAMENT FOR ISENGRIN'S BALLS

 

Chorus:

I’ve lost my joy, my heart’s desire,

I shall no more be juggling

My husband’s balls, for they are gone,

There is no use in snuggling

A useless wolf when he has turned

Both impotent and placid!

Oh what use is my husband’s cock

When it is always flaccid?

He shall not put his paws on me;

Isengrin’s lost his permit.

If he’s a eunuch then he might

As well become a hermit!

 

“You wretch!” cried Lady Hersent, “What’s happened to your balls?

What will I do without them? Oh! How the mind appals!

How d’you propose to get it up now you have lost the knack?

You really are a scatterbrain! You’d better put them back!”

 

Poor Isengrin, he whimpered, he searched for an excuse;

At last he wept for mercy, “My Lady, it’s no use!

I lent them to a certain nun, whom I met in the garden;

I know that it was rash of me; I prithee, grant me pardon!”

 

Then Lady Hersent let fly blows; she really blew her top:

“Without your balls to keep it hard, your willy is a flop!

This is worse than some affair! Oh shit! What have you done?

You’ve gone and given both your bollocks to a bloody nun!”

 

That made her husband really mad, he even called her “trollop”;

She sent him sprawling on the floor with one big, well-aimed wallop.

He clutched his midriff and he cried, “I’ll explain it to you later!”

But she said, “Bugger off, you ponce, you whoreson wicked traitor!”

 

Then out slunk Lady Hersent, all haughty and coquettish,

Crying, “I can’t see the point of this castration-fetish.

I’m going to find some other wolf - my bag’s already packed,

For I’ll not shack up with a cur whose bollocks aren’t intact!”

 

PONCET IN A PICKLE

 

Poncet, Grimbert’s cousin, had it off with Hermeline,

Reynard’s vixen, horniest widow ever, ever seen:

I’d tell you how he trod her grapes, but it is too obscene.

 

They shagged a lot and it was not a pretty sight to see;

They shagged by night, they shagged by day, until it hurt to pee.

“Oh YES! Oh GOD!” cried Hermeline, “You’ll have to marry me!”

 

“But first we need a fiddler-boy to play at the reception,”

Said Hermeline as she sniffed his bottom with affection,

“And meanwhile I shall play the horn upon this fine erection!”

 

Chorus:

Poncet, it seems, is in a pretty pickle;

Soon Hermeline will weep and sigh,

For fate so awful fickle!

Poncet’s shagging Reynard’s wife,

But such liaisons end in strife:

His bones will crack; his skin turn black,

His blood will surely trickle!

 

Reynard, sitting in the wood, learns to play the fiddle,

Soon he plays a rapid reel; laughs hard enough to piddle,

When all at once comes Hermeline, her arms round Poncet’s middle,

 

And Reynard pounds his fist with wrath, “I’ll have his guts for garters!

I’ll make sure Noble’s courtiers eat Poncet’s tripes for starters!

His soul can go where Coupee’s went, with all the blissful martyrs!”

 

And then he sidles up and says, “‘Allo! ‘Ow do you say?

Me Galopin, un fiddler fine, und I know how to play!

Mayhap zer mister und zer missus plan zeir veddingk day?”

 

Chorus

 

Then Reynard played upon the fiddle, played like merry hell,

And Poncet said, “Oh this is fine! You play it rather well!”

And Reynard thought, “Not half as well as ring your funeral knell!”

 

And so they skipped along all three, through oak and pine and birch,

Until at last the fiddler led them, dancing through the church;

“I’ll find some way,” he whispered then, “to leave them in the lurch!”

 

And happily the couple married to strains of violin,

And even the poor sex-starved priest wore a happy grin,

But all the while the fox sought ways of doing Poncet in.

 

Chorus

 

Now, as it happened, by that church stood blessed Coupee’s tomb -

This martyr healed, miraculously, plague and barren womb:

‘Twas there that Reynard set a snare and plotted Poncet’s doom.

 

“O, Meister Poncet, je suis certain, you religious fellow!

Zen you should be prayingk by zer tomb,” said the minstrel yellow,

She’ll help you make zer vixen big or zis violin’s a cello!”

 

“Why yes indeed,” poor Poncet smiled, “most happily I’ll pray,

If it will help fair Hermeline get in the family way!”

And Reynard led him to the tomb, poor Poncet to betray.

 

Chorus

 

While Hersent and fair Hermeline did all their ladies’ talking,

Poncet into Coupee’s shrine unknowingly was walking,

And behind him, eyes afire, the grim Reynard was stalking.

 

He pushed him hard into the snare, he gave an awful howl,

The wire tore him limb from limb; the fox could only scowl:

“If you were so religious, fool, you should have worn a cowl,

 

And not gone shagging Reynard’s wife! You really make me sick!

For fornication’s hazardous if you’re completely thick;

And so ends one who lets his head be controlled by his dick!”

 

Chorus

 

Poor Poncet died a horrid death, strung up by the wire,

And the more he kicked and struggled, still it pulled him higher,

And never did adultery meet consequence more dire.

 

And Reynard came to Hermeline where she lay on her bed;

He showed her where the dye had worn upon his whiskers red.

“Trollop! Whore!” he cried aloud, “You gave me up for dead!

 

But fear not! Poncet paid the price! He’s hanging in the shrine;

The jollop dripping in the gutter’s not communion wine,

So I hope he made the most of it when he took what was mine!”

 

REYNARD REPROVES THE LADIES

 

“Get up, get up, you proven whore,

You randy, wanton bitch!”

Reynard stalks about the floor,

His eyes are black as pitch.

 

“You’re in a pretty pickle now,

For Reynard isn’t dead!

You rancorous, promiscuous sow!

Get up! And hang your head!”

 

“You soon got over all your woes,

When I was on the gallows,

But Poncet has turned up his toes;

He’s resting with all hallows!”

 

He took a stick and thrashed her bum;

She gave a stricken yelp.

“I’ll wallop you to kingdom come!”

Poor Hermeline cried, “Help!”

 

“Oh, mercy, Reynard, I repent!

I don’t know what possessed me!

I’m duly shameful, sorely shent

That Poncet thus caressed me!”

 

And Reynard says, “I’ll chop your nose off!

You’ll never sniff a willy!

And your lips too! I’ll have those off

To make you look more silly!”

 

“I’ll squeeze your guts from your derriere,

And give you prolapse smelly,

The next time you have an affair,

I’ll squelch them out your belly!”

 

“And as for you, you stuck-up snob,

Hersent, with my stick,

I’ll teach you how to shut your gob!

I’ll thrash you ‘til you’re sick!”

 

“I saw you at the marriage mass,

Your bottoms waggling so!”

And Hersent cries aloud, “Alas!

Oh shit! Oh hell! Oh woe!”

 

Thus, while Poncet, on his wire,

Dangles from the roof,

Reynard, righteous, upright sire

Issues his reproof,

 

For though a fox may romp all day

With anyone he wishes,

His wife’s expected still to stay

At home and do the dishes,

 

And even if a fox may hang,

His corpse tied in a bag,

She’ll get nought but his stick and fang

If she should sneak a shag.

 

 

 

DEPORTMENT AND DECORUM

 

When Reynard drops his stick and leaves

The ladies lick their welts;

They sorrowfully suck the blood

From off their wounded pelts,

And both of them weep with dismay:

For Isengrin’s sterility,

And for shame at such disgrace,

Unbecoming their gentility.

 

“Alas!” cries Lady Hermeline,

“My name’s in disrepute!

But I thought Reynard duly hanged,

Of that there’s no dispute!”

“It wasn’t seemly, though, you know,”

The haughty wolf replies,

“For when you shagged, the whole darned town

Could hear your moans and sighs!”

 

“But I,” said Hersent, proud as punch,

“Never was the unfaithful kind -

Except for the time your Reynard dear

Took me from behind!”

Then Hermeline, with hackles raised,

Vented her hostility:

Not too nice, the things she said:

Unbecoming her gentility.

 

“You let him take you from behind?

You lupine heap of slag!

You spread your legs and turned your tail

And let him have a shag?

Your husband is a cuckold, then,

And bastards, all your sons!

Besides, I’ve heard your Isengrin

Gave his bollocks to the nuns!”

 

Then Hersent said that Maupertuis

Was a house of ill-repute,

“For you have loosely cocked your leg

For Poncet, and to boot,

I bet you’d shag a dachshund too:

Any cur with the ability,

With mongrels brown and pooches black,

Unbecoming your gentility.

 

And Hermeline bit Hersent’s ear;

The wolf tore at her chest,

Never had two noble ladies

Fought with such high zest.

They rolled and struggled on the ground,

They rent each other’s skin;

They raked each other with their claws

And sunk their canines in,

 

When all at once a hermit humble

Hobbled down the road,

And his little wrinkled face

With holy ardour glowed,

“Ladies! Ladies! Stop at once!

Repent of your hostility!

Such yelps and yowls in ladies are

Unbecoming their gentility!”

 

“Go back to your husbands dear!

Repent in dust and ashes,

And if you are lucky girls,

You’ll get off with forty lashes!”

And so, with tails between their legs

They went upon their way,

And humbly did the hermit kneel

Upon the ground to pray:

 

“Oh gracious Lord, grant them pardon,

For wrath, and lust, and vice!

For shagging might be rather fun,

But fighting isn’t nice!

And for the former, I’m too old!

O! Impotent senility!

And so I say that shagging too’s

Unbecoming their gentility!”

 

“Amen.”

 

 

FOR AN INTRODUCTORY ESSAY FOR THESE SONGS, PLEASE GO TO THE REYNARD THE FOX SET ON MY PHOTOSTREAM.

Done