Ich was in one sumere dale;
In one suþe di3ele hale
Iherde ich holde grete tale
An Hule and one Ni3tingale.
Þat plait was stif & stare & strong,
Sum wile softe & lud among.
An aiþer a3en oþer sval
& let þat vvole mod ut al;
& eiþer seide of oþeres custe
Þat alre worste þat hi wuste.
& hure & hure of oþeres songe
Hi holde plaiding suþe stronge.
Þe Ni3tingale bigon þe speche
In one hurne of one breche,
& sat up one vaire bo3e
Þar were abute blosme ino3e!
In ore uaste þicke hegge
Imeind mid spire & grene segge.
Ho was þe gladur uor þe rise,
& song a uele cunne wise.
Bet þu3te þe dreim þat he were
Of harpe & pipe þan he nere,
Bet þu3te þat he were ishote
Of harpe & pipe þan of þrote.
Þo stod on old stoc þarbiside,
Þar þo Vle song hire tide;
& was mid iui al bigrowe.
Hit was þare Hule eardingstowe.
Þe Ni3tingale hi ise3,
& hi bihold & ouerse3,
& þu3te wel vv1 of þare Hule,
For me hi halt lodlich & fule.
'Vnwi3t!', ho sede, 'awei þu flo!
Me is þe vvrs þat ich þe so.
Iwis, for þine vvle lete
Wel oft ich mine song forlete.
Min horte atfliþ & falt mi tonge,
Wonne þu art to me iþnmge.
Me luste bet speten þane singe
Of þine fule 3o3elinge.'
Þos Hule abod fort hit was eve.
Ho ne mi3te no leng bileue,
Vor hire horte was so gret
Þat wel ne3 hire fnast atschet;
& warp a word þarafter longe:
'Hu þincþe nu bi mine songe?
Wenst þu þat ich ne cunne singe,
Þe3 ich ne cunne of writelinge?
Ilome þu dest me grame,
& seist me boþe tone & schame.
3if ich þe holde on mine uote
So hit bitide þat ich mote!
& þu were vt of þine rise,
Þu sholdest singe anoþer wise!'
Þe Ni3tingale 3af answare:
'3if ich me loki wit þe bare
& me schilde wit þe blete,
Ne reche ich no3t of þine þrete;
3if ich me holde in mine hegge,
Ne recche ich neuer what þu segge.
Ich wot þat þu art unmilde
VViþ hom þat ne mu3e from þe schilde,
& þu tukest wroþe & vuele,
VVhar þu mi3t, over smale fu3ele.
Vorbi þu art loþ al fuelkunne
& alle ho þe driueþ honne,
& þe bischricheþ & bigredet
& vvel narewe þe biledet;
& ek forbe þe sulue mose
Hire þonkes wolde þe totose.
Þu art lodlich to biholde,
& þu art loþ in monie volde:
Þi bodi is short, þi swore is smal,
Grettere is þin heued þan þu al;
Þin e3ene boþ colblake & brode
Ri3t svvo ho weren ipeint mid wode.
Þu starest so þu wille abiten
Al þat þu mist mid cliure smiten.
Þi bile is stif & scharp & hoked
Ri3t so an ovvel þat is croked.
Þarmid þu clackes oft & longe,
& þat is on of þine songe.
Ac þu þretest to mine fleshe,
Mid þine cliures woldest me meshe:
Þe were icundur to one frogge,
Þat sit at mulne vnder cogge:
Snailes, mus & fule wi3te
Boþ þine cunde & þine ri3te.
Þu sittest a dai & fli3st a ni3t.
Þu cuþest þat þu art on vnwi3t.
Þu art lodlich & unclene
Bi þine neste ich hit mene
& ek bi þine fule brode:
Þu fedest on hom a wel ful fode.
Vel wostu þat hi doþ þarinne:
Hi fuleþ hit up to þe chinne;
Ho sitteþ þar so hi bo bisne.
Þarbi men segget a uorbisne:
"Dahet habbe þat ilke best
Þat fuleþ his owe nest."
Þat oþer 3er a Faukun bredde;
His nest no3t wel he ne bihedde.
Þano þu stele in o dai,
& leidest þaron þi fole ey.
Þo hit bicom þat he ha3te,
& of his eyre briddes wra3te,
Ho bro3te his briddes mete,
Bihold his nest, ise3 hi ete;
He ise3 bi one halue
His nest ifuled uthalue.
Þe Faucun was wroþ wit his bridde,
& lude 3al & sterne chidde:
"Segget me, wo hauet þis ido?
Ov nas neuer icunde þarto.
Hit was idon ov a loþ custe.
Segget me, 3if 3e hit wiste!"
Þo quaþ þat on, & quad þat oþer:
"Iwis, hit was ure o3e broþer,
Þe 3ond, þat haued þat grete heued,
Wai þat he nis þarof bireued!
VVorp hit ut mid þe alre wrste,
Þat his necke him toberste!"
Þe Faucun ilefde his bridde,
& nom þat fule brid a midde,
& warp hit of þan wilde bowe,
Þar pie & crowe hit todrowe.
Herbi men segget a bispel
Þe3 hit ne bo fuliche spel
Also hit is bi þan ungode
Þat is icumen of fule brode
& is meind wit fro monne;
Euer he cuþ þat he com þonne,
Þat he com of þan adel eye
Þe3 he a fro nest leie:
Þe3 appel trendli fron þon trowe
Þar he & oþer mid growe,
Þe3 he bo þarfrom bicume,
He cuþ wel whonene he is icume.'
(O&N, Vv.1-139)

I was in a summer's dale;
In a very hidden nook
I heard an owl and a nightingale
Having a passionate debate.
That pleading was heated, violent and strong
Sometimes soft and then loud again.
And each puffed up against the other
And let out all its evil mood;
And each said of the other's character
The very worst that she knew.
And again and again about the other's singing
They quarreled very ardently.
The Nightingale began the pleading
In a corner of a fallow field
Sitting on a fair branch
There were lots of blossoms around
In a thick and huge hedge,
Grown up with rushes and green sedge.
She was pleased with the twig
And sang many kinds of song.
The melody seemed better as if it were
by harp and pipe than as if it were not;
It seemed better, as if it were shot
From a harp or a pipe than a throat.
There was an old stock nearby
From which the Owl sang her hours,
It was all overgrown with ivy.
This was the Owl's dwelling place.
The Nightingale noticed her
and looked and eyed down at her,
Regarding the Owl in an evil way,
Because people consider her loath and foul.
'You wretch,' she said, 'fly away!
I feel sick when I see you.
Indeed, because of your evil ways
Very often I give up singing.
My spirit flees away and my tongue is blocked,
When you approach me.
I am more inclined to spit than sing
Because of your foul wailing.'
The Owl waited until dusk,
She could no longer hold back.
As her heart had swollen so much
That her breath almost shot out;
And thereafter she threw out a long speech:
'How do you like my song now?
Do you think that I do not know how to sing,
Only because I cannot chirp?
Very often you do harm to me,
telling me both grief and shame.
If I held you in my hooks
May it happen that I could!
And you were out of your twig,
You would sing a different song!'
The Nightingale gave an answer:
'If I guard myself against the open field
And protect me from being exposed,
I do not care about your threat;
If I keep to my hedge,
I do not care at all about what you say.
I know that you are not gentle
To those that cannot guard themselves against
And you tousle with wrath and evil,              [you,
Wherever you can, the little birds.
Therefore you are hated by all birdkind
And everyone drives you away
And screech around and cry out against you,
And mob you very closely;
And because of this even the titmouse
In her thoughts would like to tear you to pieces.
You are horrible to look at
And you are loathsome in many respects:
Your body is short, your neck is small,
Your head is bigger than any other part of you;
Your eyes are coalblack and large
As if they were painted with woad.
You stare around as if you wanted bite
Whatever you might clutch with your talons.
Your bill is hard and sharp and hooked
Just like an awl that is crooked.
Therewith you clack often and long,
And that is one of your songs.
But you threaten my life,
You want to crush me with your talons;
You are closer related to a frog
That sits by the millwheel under the cog:
Snails, mice and foul animals
Are your relatives and rightful companions.
You hang around by day and fly at night
You make it known that you are a wretch.
You are loathsome and unclean
I speak about your nest,
And also about your filthy brood:
You feed them a dirty and filthy food.
You know very well what they do therein:
They pile up dirt up to their chins;
They sit there as if they were blind,
Therefore men say a proverb:
"May ill luck befall such a beast
that fouls its own nest."
The other year a Falcon bred;
He did not watch well over his nest.
Thereto you stole on a certain day,
And laid therein your foul eye.
When it had happened that he had hatched
And brought to life birds from the eggs
He brought food to his birds,
Watched over his nest and saw them eat;
He noticed on one side
That the nest was filthy from the outside.
The Falcon was angry with his breed
And yelled loud and sternly chid:
"Tell me, who has done this?
You were never used to do so.
This has been done by a filthy character,
Tell me, if you know it!"
First spoke one and then the other:
"Indeed, it was our own brother,
That one there that has got this big head,
What a pity that he was not deprived of it!
Throw him out with the very worst
So that he breaks his neck!"
The Falcon believed his young
And seized the foul bird at its middle
And threw it out from the wild branch,
Where Magpie and Crow tore it asunder.
About this people tell a fable
although it is not a complete story
Just as it is with the lowborn man
Who come from foul breeding
And is brought together with wellborn men,
He will always show where he comes from,
That he comes from an addled egg
Although he lies in a noble nest:
Though an apple may roll from the tree
Where it and others with it grew up,
Though it may have got away from there,
It clearly reveals from where it has come.'

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