I lift my Spear, no Man I fear,
no Man I fear, it would appear:
I’ve gone to hunt the Horny Queynte
in the Summer of the Year!
I need no Shield, I will not yield,
although a Kundum I will wield,
I’ve gone to hunt the Horny Queynte
o’er river, stream and field.
The Horny Queynte’s a fearsome Beast,
and slippery too, to say the least—
but I’ve gone to hunt the Horny Queynte,
on Horny Queynte I’ll feast.
I’ll find each One until I’m done,
(in truth, they seem to mind it none)
I’ve gone to hunt the Horny Queynte
in the August Summer Sun.
All the day I’ll have my way,
and play at rolling in the Hay,
I’ve gone to hunt the Horny Queynte,
and I will have my Day!
The Harvest come, and
I play Dumb,
my Spear is limp, my Head is numb—
I’ve gone to hunt the Horny Queynte,
and like the Harvest, Come.
The Harvest here, they bring me beer,
and all my Loves are gathered there,
I’ve gone to hunt the Horny Queynte,
and ’tis no Man I fear!
They Harvest now— I take a bow—
they knock Me down and take my Crown!
They hand it to some Skinny Runt,
and throw Me in the Ground!
Well, Lugh protect the Little Runt,
and Lugh protect the Man who Hunts,
but know before you try this Stunt
you’d best Beware the Horny Queynte—
or you may find yourself
Defunct.
The year king had the run of the village for one year, but was responsible for the harvest. If the harvest was bad, he could be sacrificed— the ancient equivalent of “live fast, die young”. Queynte came into English from old low German. Chaucer uses it in the Canterbury Tales, spelling it ‘Queynte’, ‘Quiente’, and ‘Kent’. The obvious moral of the story— if you treat women as objects, they will probably do the same to you, and with dire consequences if the harvest fails.
—Edwin Chapman
