A Lost Canterbury Tale in Middle English

By Charles M. Sumid
Copyright 2025 Original Written 1970 Revised 2014

The Prologue

“Wel seyd, Sire Preest!” oure Hoste cride with chere,
“That was a noble tale of holinesse!
Now, Maister Bakere, draw thee somewhat nere—
Thy crusty breed hath fed us, more or lesse.
Telle us a tale of floure and of yeste,
Or what thou wolt—but make it wonder good!”

The Bakere lough, “Of breed? Nay, by my heste,
I have a tale of wrongful servitude,
Of preestes false and galeys on the see,
And how a man may ryse from deepest wo
To winne his right and his felicitee—
If that ye list to heere, I shal it show.”

“Tel on,” quod he, “and tarie nat the tyme!”
And thus the Baker gan his tale in ryme:

The Tale

In Dovere toun ther was a baker trewe,
That Robyn highte, an honest man and just.
His breed was whit, his pastees ever newe,
And alle the toun did in his baking trust.
Ther was also a preest, Sire Symeon,
That loved gold more than he loved the Roode,
And coveted the bakeres shoppe anon,
For it stood by the market, faire and good.

This preest he hadde a nece, Margerie,
As fair as May, with eyen grene as glas.
And Robyn loved hir wel and honestly,
And she loved him—but secree was, alas!
For Symeon wolde wedde hir to a knight
That hadde muche gold but was three score and ten.
“Uncle,” quod she, “I wol nat wed for might
Of gold—I love the bakere, gentil men!”

Thanne wex the preest as wrooth as any fyr:
“A bakere? Nece, thou art wode or madde!
But I shal make this Robyn to retyre
From Dovere toun, and thou shalt yet be gladde!”
He wente unto the shireve of the shire
And seyde, “This bakere is a traytour stronge—
He putteth poyson in his breed for hyre
Of Frensshmen, for to do oure kyng gret wronge!”

The shireve, that was cosyn to the preest,
Withouten preef or question of the thyng,
Condemned Robyn at the preestes heste
To serve upon the kynges ship and synge
For his supposèd tresoun—seven yeer
Upon a galey cheyned to an ore.
They took hym from his ovene, bound in fere,
While Symeon laughed to see hym go so sore.

But God, that seeth alle wronges and alle right,
Ne suffreth nat that falshed longe endure.
Upon the see ther roos a tempest-night,
The galey brak—and Robyn, by aventure,
Was cast upon the coost of Normandye,
Wher dwelte a lord that knew the bakeres art.
“What man artow?” this lord gan hym espye.
And Robyn tolde his tale with hevy hart.

“If thou art baker as thou seist,” quod he,
“Then make me breed lik we have in Engelond,
And I shal make thee free, and thou shalt see
Thy right restored by myn owene hond.”
So Robyn baked, with al his craft and might,
Swich breed as nevere Normans taasted yit.
The lord was glad and dubbed hym baker-knight,
And yaf hym gold and lettres exquisit.

Meanwhile in Dovere, Symeon the preest
Had taken Robyns shoppe, as was his plan.
But lo! he knew nat bakyng in the leest—
His breed was sour, his pastees brent and blan.
The townesfolk grumbled, “Wher is Robyn gon?
This preest kan preche but nat bake breed!”
And Margerie wepte from dusk to dawn,
For Robyn lost and for hir uncles greed.

Thre yeer were passed, and on a brightë day
Ther cam a ship from Fraunce to Dovere strond,
And from it stepped a knight in riche array—
‘Twas Robyn, with the Frenssh lordes lettre in hond!
He wente unto the kynges court anon
And shewed the lettre and his tale he tolde.
The kyng was wrooth: “This preest, this Symeon,
Hath lyed for greed, for silver and for golde!”

They brought the preest bifore the kyng in cheyne,
And eek the shireve that had doon this wronge.
“To prisoun with hem bothe!” cried the kyng. “Feyne
Wolde I be to hang hem, but I shal be stronge
In mercy. Leet hem serve upon the same
Galey wher Robyn served wrongfully—
Seven yeer for eche, in labour and in shame,
And al hir goodes to Robyn yeven fre!”

Thus was the bakere storyed to his right,
His shoppe, his gold, his place in al the toun.
And Margerie, with joye and greet delight,
Was wedded to hir Robyn of renoun.
The folk of Dovere dauncèd in the strete
To have hir baker and his breed again.
And Robyn baked a feest for alle to ete—
Fre breed for povre folk, to ese hir peyn.

The Epilogue

“And thus,” quod oure Bakere, “may ye se
How God wol nat that falshed have victorie.
Though preestes preche of Cristes charitee,
Ful ofte they serven Mammon and vainglorie.
But he that werketh with his honeste handes,
And serveth God and man with humble herte,
Shal overcome alle false commandes,
And in the ende shal have the bettre parte.

For breed is lif, and he that maketh breed
With trewe labour and with conscience clene
Dooth Goddes werk in verray word and deed—
More than som preestes, though they weren’t so kene!”

Oure Hoste lough ful loude at this sentence:
“By corpus Dominus!” quod he with glee,
“Thou hast yquit the preestes excellence
With thy tale of his vilanye!
This preest that precheth love but praktiseth hate
Deserved wel his seven yeer of wo!
Now ryde we forth, it wexeth wonder late—
The Millere next shal telle, er we go!”

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Modern English Translation

The Prologue

“Well said, Sir Priest!” our Host cried out with cheer,
“That was a noble tale of holiness!
Now, Master Baker, come you somewhat near—
Your crusty bread has fed us, more or less.
Tell us a tale of flour and of yeast,
Or what you will—but make it wondrous good!”

The Baker laughed, “Of bread? No, by my oath,
I have a tale of wrongful servitude,
Of false priests and galleys on the sea,
And how a man may rise from deepest woe
To win his rights and his felicity—
If you would hear it, I shall tell it so.”

“Tell on,” said he, “and don’t delay the time!”
And thus the Baker told his tale in rhyme:

The Tale

In Dover town there was a baker true,
Called Robin—honest, just in all his ways.
His bread was white, his pastries ever new,
And all the town gave his baking praise.
There also was a priest, Sir Symeon,
Who loved gold more than he loved the Cross,
And coveted the baker’s shop anon,
For it stood by the market, prime across.

This priest, he had a niece named Margery,
As fair as May, with eyes green as glass.
And Robin loved her well and honestly,
And she loved him—but secret was, alas!
For Symeon would wed her to a knight
Who had much gold but was seventy years old.
“Uncle,” said she, “I will not wed for might
Of gold—I love the baker, truth be told!”

Then grew the priest as wrathful as a fire:
“A baker? Niece, you’re mad or fully crazed!
But I shall make this Robin to retire
From Dover town, and you’ll be better placed!”
He went unto the sheriff of the shire
And said, “This baker is a traitor strong—
He puts poison in his bread for hire
Of Frenchmen, to do our king great wrong!”

The sheriff, who was cousin to the priest,
Without proof or questioning the thing,
Condemned Robin at the priest’s behest
To serve upon the king’s ship, laboring
For his supposed treason—seven year
Upon a galley, chained unto an oar.
They took him from his ovens, bound in fear,
While Symeon laughed to see him suffer sore.

But God, who sees all wrongs and all things right,
Does not allow that falsehood long endure.
Upon the sea there rose a tempest-night,
The galley broke—and Robin, by adventure,
Was cast upon the coast of Normandy,
Where dwelt a lord who knew the baker’s art.
“What man are you?” this lord came to espy.
And Robin told his tale with heavy heart.

“If you’re a baker as you say,” said he,
“Then make me bread like that in England known,
And I shall set you free, and you shall see
Your rights restored by my hand alone.”
So Robin baked with all his craft and might
Such bread as Normans never tasted yet.
The lord was glad and dubbed him baker-knight,
And gave him gold and letters exquisite.

Meanwhile in Dover, Symeon the priest
Had taken Robin’s shop, as was his plan.
But lo! he knew not baking in the least—
His bread was sour, his pastries burnt and wan.
The townsfolk grumbled, “Where has Robin gone?
This priest can preach but cannot bake us bread!”
And Margery wept from dusk to dawn,
For Robin lost and for her uncle’s greed.

Three years had passed, and on a bright spring day
There came a ship from France to Dover strand,
And from it stepped a knight in rich array—
‘Twas Robin, with the French lord’s letter in hand!
He went unto the king’s court right anon
And showed the letter and his tale he told.
The king was wroth: “This priest, this Symeon,
Has lied for greed, for silver and for gold!”

They brought the priest before the king in chains,
And too the sheriff who had done this wrong.
“To prison with them both!” the king exclaims.
“I’d gladly hang them, but I shall be strong
In mercy. Let them serve upon the same
Galley where Robin served so wrongfully—
Seven years for each, in labor and in shame,
And all their goods to Robin given free!”

Thus was the baker restored to his right,
His shop, his gold, his place in all the town.
And Margery, with joy and great delight,
Was wedded to her Robin of renown.
The folk of Dover danced in the street
To have their baker and his bread again.
And Robin baked a feast for all to eat—
Free bread for poor folk, to ease their pain.

The Epilogue

“And thus,” said our Baker, “may you see
How God won’t let falsehood have victory.
Though priests preach of Christ’s own charity,
Full often they serve Mammon and vainglory.
But he who works with his honest hands,
And serves both God and man with humble heart,
Shall overcome all false commands,
And in the end shall have the better part.

For bread is life, and he who makes bread
With true labor and with conscience clean
Does God’s work in very word and deed—
More than some priests, though they weren’t so keen!”

Our Host laughed full loud at this sentence:
“By God’s own body!” said he with glee,
“You’ve matched the priest’s excellence
With your tale of his villainy!
This priest who preaches love but practices hate
Deserved well his seven years of woe!
Now ride we forth, it grows wondrous late—
The Miller next shall tell, ere we go!”