Launcelot, from outside.
Ho! in the name of the Trinity, Let down the drawbridge quick to me, And open doors, that I may see Guy the good knight.
The Pagans, from the battlements.
Nay, Launcelot, With mere big words ye win us not.
Sir Launcelot.
Bid Miles bring up la perriere, And archers clear the vile walls there, Bring back the notches to the ear, Shoot well together! God to aid! These miscreants shall be well paid. Hurrah! all goes together; Miles Is good to win my lady's smiles For his good shooting—Launcelot! On knights a-pace! this game is hot!
Sir Guy sayeth afterwards.
I said, I go to meet her now, And saying so, I felt a blow From some clench'd hand across my brow, And fell down on the sunflowers Just as a hammering smote my ears, After which this I felt in sooth; My bare hands throttling without ruth The hairy-throated castellan; Then a grim fight with those that ran To slay me, while I shouted, "God For the Lady Mary!" deep I trod That evening in my own red blood; Nevertheless so stiff I stood, That when the knights burst the old wood Of the castle-doors, I was not dead. I kiss the Lady Mary's head, Her lips, and her hair golden red, Because to-day we have been wed.
SHAMEFUL DEATH.
There were four of us about that bed; The mass-priest knelt at the side, I and his mother stood at the head, Over his feet lay the bride; We were quite sure that he was dead, Though his eyes were open wide. He did not die in the night, He did not die in the day, But in the morning twilight His spirit pass'd away, When neither sun nor moon was bright, And the trees were merely grey. He was not slain with the sword, Knight's axe, or the knightly spear, Yet spoke he never a word After he came in here; I cut away the cord From the neck of my brother dear. He did not strike one blow, For the recreants came behind, In a place where the hornbeams grow, A path right hard to find, For the hornbeam boughs swing so, That the twilight makes it blind. They lighted a great torch then, When his arms were pinion'd fast, Sir John the knight of the Fen, Sir Guy of the Dolorous Blast, With knights threescore and ten, Hung brave Lord Hugh at last. I am threescore and ten, And my hair is all turn'd grey, But I met Sir John of the Fen Long ago on a summer day, And am glad to think of the moment when I took his life away. I am threescore and ten, And my strength is mostly pass'd, But long ago I and my men, When the sky was overcast, And the smoke roll'd over the reeds of the fen, Slew Guy of the Dolorous Blast. And now, knights all of you, I pray you pray for Sir Hugh, A good knight and a true, And for Alice, his wife, pray too.
THE EVE OF CRECY.
Gold on her head, and gold on her feet, And gold where the hems of her kirtle meet, And a golden girdle round my sweet;— Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite. Margaret's maids are fair to see, Freshly dress'd and pleasantly; Margaret's hair falls down to her knee;— Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite. If I were rich I would kiss her feet, I would kiss the place where the gold hems meet, And the golden girdle round my sweet— Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite. Ah me! I have never touch'd her hand; When the arriere-ban goes through the land, Six basnets under my pennon stand;— Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite. And many an one grins under his hood: "Sir Lambert de Bois, with all his men good, Has neither food nor firewood;"— Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite. If I were rich I would kiss her feet, And the golden girdle of my sweet, And thereabouts where the gold hems meet;— Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite. Yet even now it is good to think, While my few poor varlets grumble and drink In my desolate hall where the fires sink;— Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite. Of Margaret sitting glorious there, In glory of gold and glory of hair, And glory of glorious face most fair;— Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite. Likewise to-night I make good cheer, Because this battle draweth near: For what have I to lose or fear?— Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite. For, look you, my horse is good to prance A right fair measure in this war-dance, Before the eyes of Philip of France;— Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite. And sometime it may hap, perdie, While my new towers stand up three and three, And my hall gets painted fair to see— Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.— That folks may say: "Times change, by the rood, For Lambert, banneret of the wood, Has heaps of food and firewood;— Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite;— "And wonderful eyes, too, under the hood Of a damsel of right noble blood:" St. Ives, for Lambert of the wood!— Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.
THE HAYSTACK IN THE FLOODS.
Had she come all the way for this, To part at last without a kiss? Yea, had she borne the dirt and rain That her own eyes might see him slain Beside the haystack in the floods? Along the dripping leafless woods, The stirrup touching either shoe, She rode astride as troopers do; With kirtle kilted to her knee, To which the mud splash'd wretchedly; And the wet dripp'd from every tree Upon her head and heavy hair, And on her eyelids broad and fair; The tears and rain ran down her face. By fits and starts they rode apace, And very often was his place Far off from her; he had to ride Ahead, to see what might betide When the road cross'd; and sometimes, when There rose a murmuring from his men, Had to turn back with promises; Ah me! she had but little ease; And often for pure doubt and dread She sobb'd, made giddy in the head By the swift riding; while, for cold, Her slender fingers scarce could hold The wet reins; yea, and scarcely, too, She felt the foot within her shoe Against the stirrup: all for this, To part at last without a kiss Beside the haystack in the floods. For when they near'd that old soak'd hay, They saw across the only way That Judas, Godmar, and the three Red running lions dismally Grinn'd from his pennon, under which In one straight line along the ditch, They counted thirty heads. So then, While Robert turn'd round to his men, She saw at once the wretched end, And, stooping down, tried hard to rend Her coif the wrong way from her head, And hid her eyes; while Robert said: "Nay, love, 'tis scarcely two to one, At Poictiers where we made them run So fast—why, sweet my love, good cheer, The Gascon frontier is so near, Nought after this." But, "O," she said, "My God! my God! I have to tread The long way back without you; then The court at Paris; those six men; The gratings of the Chatelet; The swift Seine on some rainy day Like this, and people standing by, And laughing, while my weak hands try To recollect how strong men swim. All this, or else a life with him, For which I should be damned at last, Would God that this next hour were past!" He answer'd not, but cried his cry, "St. George for Marny!" cheerily; And laid his hand upon her rein. Alas! no man of all his train Gave back that cheery cry again; And, while for rage his thumb beat fast Upon his sword-hilt, some one cast About his neck a kerchief long, And bound him. Then they went along To Godmar; who said: "Now, Jehane, Your lover's life is on the wane So fast, that, if this very hour You yield not as my paramour, He will not see the rain leave off— Nay, keep your tongue from gibe and scoff, Sir Robert, or I slay you now." She laid her hand upon her brow, Then gazed upon the palm, as though She thought her forehead bled, and—"No," She said, and turn'd her head away, As there were nothing else to say, And everything were settled: red Grew Godmar's face from chin to head: "Jehane, on yonder hill there stands My castle, guarding well my lands: What hinders me from taking you, And doing that I list to do To your fair wilful body, while Your knight lies dead?" A wicked smile Wrinkled her face, her lips grew thin, A long way out she thrust her chin: "You know that I should strangle you While you were sleeping; or bite through Your throat, by God's help—ah!" she said, "Lord Jesus, pity your poor maid! For in such wise they hem me in, I cannot choose