The Fox, the Wolf and the Farmer Five Fables

BELLS PEAL

At the end of the 15th century, a Scottish notary

and teacher called Robert Henryson writes a series of animal

fables based on the old stories of Aesop.

Esop, myne authour, makis mentioun

of twa myis and thay wer sisteris deir.

Henryson is little known these days, but experts consider him a master.

He's the greatest poet, I think,

of the 15th century in English or Scots.

Fast-forward over 500 years

and Nobel Prize-winning poet Seamus Heaney catches

a glimpse of an early manuscript of the fables and is spellbound.

They're very good. They're very fresh. Very alive.

There's much to recommend them.

Over several years,

Seamus creates a series of modern English translations infused

with the language of his rural childhood in Northern Ireland.

It's absolutely brilliant. It's a wonderful translation.

And he persuades Scottish actor

and comedy legend Billy Connolly to record them.

This country mouse, when winter came, endured cold and hunger.

I think he's amazing. His reputation swells before him.

Now, five of these fables have been animated for a project

Seamus Heaney was working on at the time of his death.

Bringing a modern dimension to tales that were written

over half a millennium ago.

With a specially-composed score by international pianist

and conductor, Barry Douglas.

This is a very major thing for me.

It's a new departure and I'm very excited.

In a moment, the full animated story of the Fox, the Wolf and the Farmer

with an introduction by Seamus Heaney himself

and later, some revealing behind-the-scenes footage

of how these morality tales made it to the screen.

Five medieval fables are now ready for their second coming.

Well, Henryson appears in 15th century documents

not only as a schoolteacher, but as a notary, as they say.

A man familiar with legal practise.

And the fable about the Fox, the Wolf and the Farmer plays upon that.

He uses his legal knowledge because the farmer curses his oxen

and says, "The wolf will have you."

The wolf overhears it, makes an argument for the oxen

based on law and the fox appears as judge in this argument.

And takes a bribe

and this is an image of the judges of the time taking bribes.

And the next thing,

the fox leads the wolf on a merry chase after a big cheese.

And at the very end, there is a terrific denouement

where a pulley in a well sends one up and the other down.

So it's a swift and, er...

just and happy judgment in the end.

BIRDSONG

INSTRUMENTAL

In olden days, as Aesop has recorded,

there was a farmer born to speed the plough.

Early rising ever was his habit.

And so, come ploughing time,

he rose to go early a field to open the first furrow.

His farmhand with him, leading out the oxen.

He blessed himself and them and started in.

The farmhand shouted, "Top it up! Come on! Pull straight, my pets!"

Then flailed them hard and sore.

The team was fresh and young and barely broken.

So hard to rein, they wrecked the new-ploughed score.

The farmer let a sudden angry roar, stoned them,

threw down the pattle of the plough.

"The wolf!" he yelled, "can have the lot of you!"

But yet the wolf was nearer than he knew,

for he lay with Mr Fox in a bush nearby,

a thicket at the far end of the furrow, and heard the vow.

Fox laughed in quick reply.

"Now there's an offer," he told Wolf, "which I consider good."

"I promise you," Wolf answered,

"I'll make yon royal clown stand by his word."

Finally, the oxen settled down.

Then, later on, the two men unyoked them.

The farmer, with his team, set off for home.

The wolf straightway limped out

and came loping into their path to work his stratagem.

The farmer saw him, couldn't but take fright

and thought to turn the beasts and make retreat.

"Where are you going with this stolen stock?" the wolf laid claim.

"For none of them are yours."

The man, although now thrown into panic,

faces the wolf and deliberately answers,

"Sir, by my soul, all of these oxen-steers are mine.

"I'm puzzled that you stopped me.

"For never once did I offend you. Truly."

The wolf said, "Fellow, did you not just now donate them to me

"as you ploughed yon bank?

"And is there any finer deed, I ask you, than a free deed of gift?

"You forfeit thanks by stalling.

"Better liberal with your halfpence than forced in the end

"to part with fatted stock.

"Generosity not from the heart is mock."

"Sir," said the farmer, "a man may speak in fury

"and then gainsay himself once he's considered.

"If I say I'll steal, does it make a thief of me?

"Do promises like that have to be honoured?

"Did I sign documents, or give my word?

"What writ or witness do you have to show?

"Do not, sir, seek to rob me. Go to law."

"Clown!" said the wolf.

"A lord, if he is honest and lives in fear of shame and of reproof,

"his word alone will be his seal of trust.

"Fie on the man we can't believe or have respect for.

"You're contriving to deceive.

"And without honesty, the proverbs say,

"other virtues are flimsy as a fly."

"Sir," said the farmer, "remember this one thing.

"An honest man's not tricked by a half-truth.

"I may say and gainsay, I am no king,

"but where's the witness you can put on oath?"

"Then," said the wolf, "let you take him on good faith.

"Lawrence?" he calls, "come here out of that covert

"and say exactly what you saw and heard."

Lawrence came lurking. He never loved the light.

And soon appeared before them in that place.

The man saw nothing in the sight to laugh at.

"Lawrence," said Wolf, "you must decide this case.

"The truth of which we'll demonstrate with ease.

"I call for honest witness.

"In his wrath, what gift did this man promise I would have?"

"Sir," said the fox,

"a final verdict now would be premature and unduly hasty,

"but if you would submit, the pair of you, to what I rule in perpetuity,

"I'll do my best to judge the case as fairly as can be done."

"Well," said the wolf, "agreed."

And the man said, "Yes, again agreed."

Both then made their allegations frankly.

Both sets of pleas set forth by them complete.

"Though I act as judge in friendship, you must be bound," said Lawrence,

"to accept my verdict

"however it may strike you, sour or sweet."

The wolf stretched out his foot, the man his hand,

and swore on the fox's tail their pact would stand.

The fox then took the man off to one side and,

"Friend," he said, "you're landed in a mess.

"This wolf won't let you off a single oxhide.

"And while I myself would wish to lend assistance,

"I am very loath to act against my conscience.

"You'll spoil your case if you make your own defence.

"This can't be won without some real expense."

You see how bribes work best to get men through

and how, for gifts, the crooked path will straighten?

Sometimes a hen will save a man a cow.

All are not holy who hoist their hands to heaven.

"Sir," said the man, "you shall have six or seven

"of the very fattest hens out of my flock.

"There'll be enough left if you leave the cock."

"Now I am a judge," said the fox, and laughed.

"Bribes should not divert me from doing right.

"Yet hens and capons I may well bear off

"for God has gone to sleep, at least this night.

"Such carry-on is petty in his sight.

"These hens," he said, "will make your case secure.

"No man draws hawk to hand without a lure."

With these things settled, Lawrence took his leave,

then went immediately to see the wolf

and there in private, plucked him by the sleeve.

"Are you in earnest," he asks, "as a plaintiff?

"No, by my soul, you can't be. It's a laugh."

"What, Lawrence, do you mean?" the wolf replied.

"You heard yourself the promise that he made."

"The promise, is it, the man made at the plough?

"Is that what you would base your case upon?"

Half-mocking like this, Lawrence gave a laugh.

LAUGHTER

"Sir, by the rood," says he, "your head is gone.

"Devil and oxtail are you going to win.

"And tricking a poor man who has no defence?

"How could I bear to have that on my conscience?

"But I've consulted with the soul," said he,

"and we agreed upon this covenant.

"You cancel all your claims and set him free

"and you'll be given whole into your hand,

"a cheese unparalleled in all the land.

"He says it weighs a stone and maybe more.

"It's summer cheese. Fresh. Nothing lovelier."

"So you're advising this is what I do.

"Accept the cheese so that clown can go free?"

"Yes, by my soul, and were I counsel for you,

"it's what I would advise professionally.

"For even pushed to its extremity,

"your case won't win a turnip in return.

"Nor do I, sir, intend my soul to burn."

"Well," said the wolf, "it goes against the grain that for a cheese, this fellow's off the hook."

"Sir, said the fox, "you ought not to complain

"for, by my soul, you are the one at fault."

"Then," said the wolf, "I'm finished with the plot.

"But I'd like to see this cheese you boast about."

"Sir," said the fox, "he told me where it's kept."

Then, hand in hand, they go on to a hill.

The farmer to his farmhouse takes his way,

glad to have eluded their ill will,

and stands guard by his door till break of day.

So let us turn to the others now

as they proceed through lonely woods, two footsore prowlers,

from bush to bush well into the small hours.

All through the long night, Lawrence wracks his wits

how he might pacify the wolf by guile.

His promise of the cheese, he now regrets,

but in the end, he hits upon a wile

so satisfactory, he has to smile.

"This is blind man's buff," Wolf says, "my friend.

"We hunt all night, but not a thing we find!"

"Sir," said the fox, "we are all but there.

"Stop worrying and you shall see it soon."

They hurried on until they reached a manor.

Like a new penny, shone the full round moon.

Then to a draw-well, these two gents are come,

where a bucket hung at each end of the rope.

As the one went down, the other was cranked up.

The moon's reflection shone deep in the well.

"Sir," said the fox, "for once you'll find me true.

"Now don't you see the cheese there, visible,

"white as a turnip, round as a seal?

"Although he hung it deep to keep it hid from view."

"For this cheese, sir, believe me,

"is a thing would make a gift for any lord or king."

"Ah!" said the wolf,

"if I could have yon cheese out high and dry in its entirety,

"I'd let yon clown off everything he owes.

"What good's a dumb ox team? I set him free.

"Yon cheese is more the fare for men like me.

"Lawrence," he cried, "into that bucket, quick,

"and I will hold on here, then wind you back."

Quickly, dexterously, the fox leaps in.

The other stays to keep hold of the handle.

"It's so immense," says Fox, "it has me beaten.

"My toes won't grip, I've torn off every nail.

"You'll have to help me up. It's such a huge haul!

"Get into that other bucket and descend this minute

"to me here and lend a hand."

Nimbly then, the idiot leapt in,

which made, of course, the other bucket rise.

The fox was hoisted up, the wolf wound down.

And as they pass, Wolf furiously cries,

"Why is my bucket falling while yours flies?"

"Sir," said the fox, "it's thus with Fortune ever.

"If she lets one soar, she's like to sink another."

LAUGHTER

Down to the bottom then, the wolf shot past

while Lawrence lands on top.

A happy fox, leaving the wolf in water to the waist.

To tell who rescued him, I'm at a loss. The text ends here.

There is no further gloss.

Except that men may find morality in this narration, fable though it be.

EVIL CACKLE

Everything Henryson has written, as far as I'm concerned,

is a major and interesting, compelling piece of poetry.

In Henryson, you're going to find the depths of despair

and the heights of hilarity.

So that reading itself becomes a moral activity.

Well, he's not as famous as his near contemporary,

the southern poet, Chaucer, and that's a pity really because

he's an extraordinary poet of great range and maturity, I think.

But also the language, he writes

this extraordinary eloquent, ringing Scots.

I mean, you're clearly reading a Scottish writer at every point.

In elderis dayis, as Esope can declair,

thair wes ane husband quhilk had ane plewch to steir.

My understanding is that Seamus first discovered

Henryson's fables at university and then he came back to them later,

which wouldn't surprise me because I went to the same university.

Indeed, he taught me at Queen's University Belfast at one point.

And the syllabus, I suspect, was very much the same.

One of the standard essays you learnt from the previous years

was to compare Henryson's poem about Troilus and Criseyde with Chaucer's.

So that's where I encountered Henryson first.

Most of Heaney's papers connected with medieval poetry

he left at Queen's University Belfast in their library

because that's where he learnt his medieval poetry from.

So I went there shortly after he deposited them there in the mid noughties

and read through all of his undergraduate notes.

The first time he seems to have been aware of Henryson,

he actually writes his name down as Henderson.

He writes down, "Henderson and Dunbar, Scottish Chaucerian poets."

Subsequently, relatively recently, indeed, I was reminded of them

when I saw a manuscript in an exhibition in the British Library.

And it had a little rooster on the top right-hand

corner of the manuscript.

But the rooster was crowing.

Something so jaunty about it.

Heaney often talked

about his education here at Queen's Belfast

and he often talked about the formative influence

that medieval poetry had on his writing.

I think for Heaney, the medieval tradition is a lost tradition.

And part of his task is to recuperate that.

We know certain key things about Henryson.

We know he was dead by about 1505

because that is celebrated in a poem

by another well-known Scot, William Dunbar,

who says that, "death hes done roune,"

had to do with, in a rather brutal way,

"with Maister Robert Henrysoun."

And that, "Maister," tells us that Henryson had a master's degree

and we think that he is the Robert Henryson

who is recorded in the annals of the University of Glasgow in 1462.

Then we know that he was a schoolmaster in Dunfermline.

We're pretty certain he was based in Dunfermline,

connected to the abbey for a period of time.

There are multiple records that say a man called Robert Henryson

was actually working in the area as a schoolteacher

and also possibly as a sort of notary figure.

That's the kind of thing that rural schoolteachers did

until quite recently.

They were not only schoolteachers, but they did law documents

and JP work, Justice of the Peace work.

So he had the teaching role,

which I think comes out in his poetry,

and he had the legal role, which also comes out in his poetry,

which he is very interested in matters not just of law,

but also of justice, which really matters to Henryson.

Do not, sir, seek to rob me. Go to law.

'In the Fox, the Wolf and the Farmer,

'there's a terrific bit of legal tangling which would suggest'

that the source that gives him as a notary is to be relied upon.

These are not drawing room fables

for the polite education of children.

These are really serious, analytical explorations of things

that were going on in the Scotland in which Robert Henryson lived.

You see how bribes work best to get men through

and how for gifts the crooked path will straighten.

Sometimes a hen and will save a man a cow.

All are not holy who hoist their hands to heaven.

The 15th century was a time of great corruption

and Henryson's readers would have known what he was talking about.

He was talking about the way in which people, generally,

the commons of Scotland,

could not depend on getting justice in the courts

because of the way that justice could be bent.

And one of the really interesting things about Henryson is

that he's almost always on the side of the little guy.

He raises the question in the fables

how justice might be tempered with mercy.

Whether it is mice or men.

Your honour has been injured, I admit,

and I deserve this sentence you decree

unless you relent, my Lord and pardon me.

The fables of Aesop were a popular grammar school text.

It would have been his daily bread

to teach these texts to kids every year.

He must have known these texts inside out.

You would have thought

he might have got really weary of hearing them again and again.

I just find it amazing that the fables of Aesop

are so fresh and re-freshed in the version which we have.

To kill and then devour 1,000 mice.

What is manly about that in a great lion?

Henryson is a very serious poet,

but he is also a very funny poet.

He sees the grave things in life

but he also sees what makes life delightful and ridiculous

and silly and fun.

And he puts all that together in poems that are very accessible

and also brilliant in terms of story telling.

We thought, by my soul, that you were dead indeed.

Why else would we have danced upon your heid?

Of course, if you are telling stories about small animals,

there is an immediate sense of the ridiculous.

Even relatively touching stories like the town and country mouse,

at the back of your mind, there is always a sense of the absurdity.

When the Burgess mouse heads out for home with her staff in hand,

you just laugh because the idea of a mouse with staff in hand

is just intrinsically funny.

So barefoot and alone and alone with staff in hand,

like a poor pilgrim she set out from the town to seek her sister.

There are many of these crossover moments where he plays with the fact that he is using animals,

but you can't visualise them just as animals because the action will seize up if you do.

You can tell from Henryson's poetry that he had a great sense

both of the miserable things in life,

and of the incredibly funny and comic things in life.

I think people in the Middle Ages, in those hard times,

also had a lot of good times.

It was also believed that if you were a cheerful kind of person,

this would stop you from getting ill.

It's one of the rather bizarre aspects of medieval culture

that they believed that melancholy was the root of many ills

and so, if you maintained a cheerful disposition,

you could ward off those strange humours,

those poisonous humours which could ruin your health.

So, you see, really, a good story, a good yarn, is good for your health

is part of the rationale behind that.

I cannot eat, I'm so sore aghast

I'd rather do Lent's 40 days of fast on cabbage water

Gnawing peas and beans

Than feast with you here in such dread conditions.

The humour is very familiar to anybody from the northern climes,

Scotland or Northern Ireland

because, quite often, it's po-faced, it's ironical.

And as opposed to humour, jokes and funniness as such,

there's a kind of merriment in his descriptions,

just of the two little mice.

There's a kind of pastoral symphony working behind all that.

A kind of joyfulness.

Hearing Henryson read, I think,

really transforms one's experience of understanding Henryson.

Once you hear the voice of Henryson, you are beguiled I think.

Throw mony wilsum wayis can scho walk

Throw mosse and mure

Throw bankis, busk, and breir

Fra fur to fur

cryand fra balk to balk

Cum furth to me, my awin sister deir Cry peip anis!

With that the mous couth heir

And knew hir voce as kinnismen will do

Be verray kynd and furth scho come hir to.

It's great reading out Henryson because, after all,

he was meant to be read

and meant to be heard.

He gives the performing voice a lot of challenges.

One of the things that is most difficult for a modern person

is to try to approximate in some way Henryson's Scots.

To me, it is extraordinarily difficult

because the experts themselves are not necessarily agreed

on what the pronunciation might have been.

Bot I hard say

Scho passit to hir den

Als warme as woll suppose it wes not greit

Full beinly stuffit baith but and ben

Of beinis and nuttis, peis, ry, and quheit

Quhenever scho list

Scho had aneuch to eit

In quyet and eis withoutin ony dreid

Bot to hir sisteris feist na mair scho yeid.

There is a wonderful anecdote of the death of Henryson which says...

"Mr Robert Henryson,

"he was questionless a learned and a witty man,

"and it is pity we have no more of his works.

"He died of a diarrhoea of the flux

"of whom there goes this merry though somewhat unsavoury tale

"that all physicians having given him over

"and he lying drawing his last breath,

"there came an old woman unto him who was held a witch,

"and asked him whether he would be cured,

"to whom he said, very willingly.

"Then, quo'd she,

"there is a whikey tree in the lower end of your orchard.

"If you will go and walk but thrice aboot it

"and thrice repeat these words,

"whikey tree, whikey tree, whikey tree, tak away this flux from me,

"you shall be presently cured.

"He told her that beside he was extreme faint,

"it was extreme frost and snow

"and it was impossible for him to go.

"She told him that unless he did so, it was impossible he should recover.

"Mr Henryson then lifting up himself

"and pointing to an oaken table

"asked her, I pray you tell me

"if it would not do as well if I repeated thrice these words,

"oaken bord, oaken bord, oaken bord, garre me shit a hard turde?

"The woman, seeing herself derided and scorned

"ran out of the horse in a great passion

"and Mr Henryson, within half a quarter of an hour,

"departed this life."

So that was the end of Henryson. He died rhyming. What a star!