Filthie Olde Seth

Seth, Seth, the servile serf

Earned his cruste by plowing earthe. 

Thick filthe lay on his every limbe.

The stynke of Seth was foule and grimme.

When summer came with azure skye

And barleycorne was ripe and drye,

Seth leapt at dawne, uncleane from bedde,

To shake the dandruffe from his hedde.

He scythed ’til noon  then founde some shade

To kisse a pungent dairie maide.

His wife Griselda came with lunche,

Saw what he didde and threwe a punche.

Seth fybbed, ‘I kissed her not. Thou art a fool.

It’s time to use the ducking stool!’

‘I’ll fecche,’ yelled wife, ‘the village prieste.

Thou heartless manne, thou nastie beaste.’

The priest was eating mutton pie.

He wiped his chinne and breathed a sigh.

‘You two agene! O, by Sainte Garthe,

Methynkes I’ll make you take a bath.’

At this, swarte Seth beganne to sweat.

His skinne hadde never yette been wette.

Soap between his stinking toes?

His armpittes scrubbed and up his nose?

‘NAY, SIRE,’ cried he, a casten downe,

‘I cannot spoil my goodwye’s gowne,

And we would bresten, faced with soap.

Holie father, give us hope.’

He clasped Griselda in his armes

Inhaled her smelle of grease and farmes.

‘For lyfe, I’ll love thee,’ so he swore,

Then kissed her once and twice and more.

The priest went home, and so did she,

A goodly wyfe, to mekke his tea.

Seth watched her fondly out of sight,

Waddling through the evening light.

Then, as the sunne beganne to sink,

He gave the dairie maide a wink.

That night, he crossed himself and grinned.

‘Forgive me, Father. I have sinned.’