The fifteenth day of July, With glistering spear and shield, A famous fight in Flanders Was foughten on the field: The most courageous officers Were English captains three; But the bravest man in battle Was brave lord Willoughbey.

The next was captain Norris, A valiant man was he: The other captain Turner, From field would never flee. With fifteen hundred fighting men, Alas! there were no more, They fought with fourteen thousand then, Upon the bloody shore.

Stand to it noble pikemen, And look you round about: And shoot you right you bowmen, And we will keep them out: You musket and calliver[125] men, Do you prove true to me, I'll be the foremost man in fight, Says brave lord Willoughbey.

And then the bloody enemy They fiercely did assail, And fought it out most furiously, Not doubting to prevail: The wounded men on both sides fell Most piteous for to see, Yet nothing could the courage quell Of brave lord Willoughbey.



For seven hours to all men's view This fight endured sore, Until our men so feeble grew, That they could fight no more; And then upon dead horses Full savourly they ate, And drank the puddle water, They could no better get.

When they had fed so freely, They kneeled on the ground, And praised God devoutly For the favour they had found; And beating up their colours, The fight they did renew, And turning tow'rds the Spaniard, A thousand more they slew.

The sharp steel-pointed arrows, And bullets thick did fly; Then did our valiant soldiers Charge on most furiously; Which made the Spaniards waver, They thought it best to flee, They fear'd the stout behaviour Of brave lord Willoughbey.

Then quoth the Spanish general, Come let us march away, I fear we shall be spoiled all, If here we longer stay; For yonder comes lord Willoughbey With courage fierce and fell, He will not give one inch of way For all the devils in hell.

And then the fearful enemy Was quickly put to flight, Our men pursued courageously, And caught their forces quite; But at last they gave a shout, Which echoed through the sky, God, and St. George for England! The conquerors did cry.

This news was brought to England With all the speed might be, And soon our gracious queen was told Of this same victory. O this is brave lord Willoughbey, My love that ever won, Of all the lords of honour, 'Tis he great deeds hath done.

To the soldiers that were maimed, And wounded in the fray, The queen allowed a pension Of fifteen pence a day; And from all costs and charges She quit and set them free: And this she did all for the sake Of brave lord Willoughbey.

Then courage, noble Englishmen, And never be dismayed: If that we be but one to ten, We will not be afraid To fight with foreign enemies, And set our nation free. And thus I end the bloody bout Of brave lord Willoughbey.

FOOTNOTES:

[124] Peregrine Bertie, Lord Willoughbey of Eresby, died 1601.

[125] A kind of gun.



KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY.

An ancient story I'll tell you anon Of a notable prince, that was called king John; And he ruled England with main and with might, For he did great wrong, and maintain'd little right.

And I'll tell you a story, a story so merry, Concerning the Abbot of Canterbury; How for his house-keeping, and high renown, They rode post for him to fair London town.

An hundred men, the king did hear say, The abbot kept in his house every day; And fifty gold chains, without any doubt, In velvet coats waited the abbot about.

How now, father abbot, I hear it of thee, Thou keepest a far better house than me, And for thy house-keeping and high renown, I fear thou work'st treason against my crown.

My liege, quoth the abbot, I would it were known, I never spend nothing, but what is my own; And I trust, your grace will do me no deer,[126] For spending of my own true-gotten gear.

Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is high, And now for the same thou needest must die; For except thou canst answer me questions three, Thy head shall be smitten from thy body.

And first, quoth the king, when I'm in this stead,[127] With my crown of gold so fair on my head, Among all my liege-men so noble of birth, Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worth.

Secondly, tell me, without any doubt, How soon I may ride the whole world about. And at the third question thou must not shrink, But tell me here truly what I do think.

O, these are hard questions for my shallow wit, Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet: But if you will give me but three weeks' space, I'll do my endeavour to answer your grace.

Now three weeks' space to thee will I give, And that is the longest time thou hast to live; For if thou dost not answer my questions three, Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to me.



Away rode the abbot all sad at that word, And he rode to Cambridge, and Oxenford; But never a doctor there was so wise, That could with his learning an answer devise.

Then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold, And he met his shepherd a going to fold: How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home; What news do you bring us from good king John?

Sad news, sad news, shepherd, I must give; That I have but three days more to live: For if I do not answer him questions three, My head will be smitten from my body.

The first is to tell him there in that stead, With his crown of gold so fair on his head, Among all his liege-men so noble of birth, To within one penny of what he is worth.

The second, to tell him, without any doubt, How soon he may ride this whole world about: And at the third question I must not shrink, But tell him there truly what he does think.

Now cheer up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet, That a fool he may learn a wise man wit? Lend me horse, and serving-men, and your apparel, And I'll ride to London to answer your quarrel.

Nay frown not, if it hath been told unto me, I am like your lordship, as ever may be: And if you will but lend me your gown, There is none shall know us at fair London town.

Now horses, and serving-men thou shalt have, With sumptuous array most gallant and brave; With crozier, and mitre, and rochet, and cope, Fit to appear 'fore our father the pope.

Now welcome, sire abbot, the king he did say, 'Tis well thou'rt come back to keep thy day; For and if thou canst answer my questions three, Thy life and thy living both saved shall be.

And first, when thou seest me here in this stead, With my crown of gold so fair on my head, Among all my liege-men so noble of birth, Tell me to one penny what I am worth.

For thirty pence our Saviour was sold Among the false Jews, as I have been told; And twenty-nine is the worth of thee, For I think, thou art one penny worser than he.

The king he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel,[128] I did not think I had been worth so little! —Now secondly tell me, without any doubt, How soon I may ride this whole world about.

You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same, Until the next morning he riseth again; And then your grace need not make any doubt, But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about.

The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone, I did not think it could be gone so soon! —Now from the third question thou must not shrink, But tell me here truly what I do think.

Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry: You think I'm the abbot of Canterbury; But I'm his poor shepherd, as plain you may see, That am come to beg pardon for him and for me.

The king he laughed, and swore by the mass, I'll make thee lord abbot this day in his place! Now nay, my liege, be not in such speed, For, alack, I can neither write nor read.

Four nobles a week then I will give thee, For this merry jest thou hast shown unto me; And tell the old abbot when thou com'st home, Thou hast brought him a pardon from good king John.

FOOTNOTES:

[126] Hurt.

[127] Place.

[128] St. Botolph.



ROBIN HOOD AND THE CURTAL FRIAR.

In the summer time, when leaves grow green, And flowers are fresh and gay, Robin Hood and his merry men Were all disposed to play.

Then some would leap, and some would run, And some would use artillery; Which of you can a good bow draw, A good archer for to be?

Which of you can kill a buck? Or who can kill a doe? Or who can kill a hart of grease,[129] Five hundred foot him fro'?

Will Scarlet he kill'd a buck, And Midge he kill'd a doe; And Little John kill'd a hart of grease, Five hundred foot him fro'.

God's blessing on thy heart, said Robin Hood, That shot such a shot for me; I would ride my horse an hundred miles To find one to match thee.

That caused Will Scarlet to laugh, He laugh'd full heartily; There lives a friar in Fountain's Abbey Will beat both him and thee.

The curtal friar in Fountain's Abbey Well can draw a good strong bow; He will beat both you and your yeomen, Set them all on a row.

Robin Hood took a solemn oath, It was by Mary free, That he would neither eat nor drink, Till the friar he did see.

Robin Hood put on his harness good, On his head a cap of steel; Broad sword and buckler by his side, And they became him well.

He took his bow into his hand, (It was of a trusty tree) With a sheaf of arrows by his side And to Fountain Dale went he.

And coming unto fair Fountain Dale, No farther would he ride: There was he 'ware of a curtal friar, Walking by the water-side.

The friar had on a harness good, On his head a cap of steel; Broad sword and buckler by his side, And they became him well.

Robin Hood lighted off his horse, And tied him to a thorn: Carry me over the water, thou curtal friar, Or else thy life's forlorn.

The friar took Robin Hood on his back, Deep water he did bestride, And spake neither good word nor bad Till he came to the other side.

Lightly leap'd Robin off the friar's back, The friar said to him again, Carry me over the water, fine fellow, Or it shall breed thee pain.

Robin Hood took the friar on his back, Deep water he did bestride, And spake neither good nor bad Till he came to the other side.

Lightly leap'd the friar off Robin Hood's back, Robin said to him again, Carry me over the water thou curtal friar, Or it shall breed thee pain.

The friar he took Robin Hood on his back again And stepp'd up to his knee; Till he came to the middle of the stream Neither good nor bad spake he;

And coming to the middle of the stream There he threw Robin in; And choose thee, choose thee, fine fellow, Whether thou wilt sink or swim.



Robin Hood swam to a bush of broom, The friar to the willow wand; Bold Robin Hood he got to the shore, And took his bow in his hand.

One of the best arrows under his belt To the friar he let fly: The curtal friar with his steel buckler Did put that arrow by.

Shoot on, shoot on, thou fine fellow, Shoot as thou hast begun; If thou shoot here a summer's day, Thy mark I will not shun.

Robin Hood shot so passing well, Till his arrows all were gone; They took their swords and steel bucklers, They fought with might and main.

From ten o'clock that very day, Till four i' the afternoon; Then Robin Hood came on his knees, Of the friar to beg a boon.

A boon, a boon, thou curtal friar, I beg it on my knee; Give me leave to set my horn to my mouth, And to blow blasts three.

That I will do, said the curtal friar, Of thy blasts I have no doubt; I hope thou wilt blow so passing well, Till both thy eyes drop out.

Robin Hood set his horn to his mouth, And he blew out blasts three, Half a hundred yeomen, with their bows bent, Came ranging over the lea.

Whose men are these, said the friar, That come so hastily? These men are mine, said Robin Hood, Friar, what's that to thee?

A boon, a boon, said the curtal friar, The like I gave to thee; Give me leave to put my fist to my mouth, And whute[130] whutes three.

That I will do, said Robin Hood, Or else I were to blame; Three whutes in a friar's fist Would make me glad and fain.

The friar he set his fist to his mouth, And he whuted him whutes three; Half an hundred good ban dogs Came running over the lea.

Here is for every man a dog, And I myself for thee: Nay, by my faith, said Robin Hood, Friar, that may not be.

Two dogs at once to Robin did go, The one behind and the other before; Robin Hood's mantle of Lincoln green Off from his back they tore.

And whether his men shot east or west, Or they shot north or south, The curtal dogs, so taught they were, They caught the arrows in their mouth.

Take up thy dogs, said Little John, Friar, at my bidding thee; Whose man art thou, said the curtal friar, That comes here to prate to me?

I am Little John, Robin Hood's man, Friar, I will not lie; If thou take not up thy dogs anon, I'll take them up and thee.

Little John had a bow in his hand, He shot with might and main; Soon half a score of the friar's dogs Lay dead upon the plain.

Hold thy hand, good fellow, said the curtal friar, Thy master and I will agree; And we will have new orders taken, With all haste that may be.

If thou wilt forsake fair Fountain Dale, And Fountain Abbey free, Every Sunday throughout the year A noble shall be thy fee.

Every Sunday throughout the year, Chang'd shall thy garments be, If thou wilt to fair Nottingham go, And there remain with me.

The curtal friar had kept Fountain Dale, Seven long years and more; There was neither knight, lord, nor earl, Could make him yield before.

FOOTNOTES:

[129] Fat hart.

[130] Whistle.



ROBIN HOOD AND ALLEN-A-DALE.

Come listen to me, you gallants so free, All you that love mirth for to hear, And I will tell you of a bold outlaw, That liv'd in Nottinghamshire.

As Robin Hood in the forest stood, All under the greenwood tree, There was he aware of a brave young man, As fine as fine might be.

The youngster was clothed in scarlet red, In scarlet fine and gay; And he did frisk it o'er the plain, And chaunted a roundelay.

As Robin Hood next morning stood Amongst the leaves so gay, There did he 'spy the same young man Come drooping along the way.

The scarlet he wore the day before, It was cast clean away; And ev'ry step he fetch'd a sigh, Alack and well a day!

Then stepped forth brave Little John, And Midge the miller's son, Which made the young man bend his bow, When he did see them come.

Stand off, stand off, the young man said, What is your will with me? You must come before our master straight, Under yonder greenwood tree.

And when he came bold Robin before, Robin asked him courteously, O hast thou any money to spare For my merry men and me?

I have no money, the young man said, But five shillings and a ring, And that I have kept these seven long years, To have it at my wedding.

Yesterday I should have married a maid, But from me she was ta'en, And chosen to be an old knight's delight, Whereby my poor heart is slain.

What is thy name then, said Robin Hood, Come, tell me without fail? By the faith of my body, then said the young man, My name is Allen-a-Dale.

What wilt thou give me, said Robin Hood, In ready gold or fee, To help thee to thy true love again, And deliver her unto thee?

I have no money, then quoth the young man, No ready gold or fee, But I will swear upon a book, Thy true servant for to be.

How many miles is it to thy true love? Come, tell me without any guile. By the faith of my body, then said the young man, It is but five little mile.

Then Robin he hasted over the plain, And he did neither stint nor lin,[131] Until he came unto the church, Where Allen should have kept his wedding!

What dost thou here, the Bishop then said, I prithee tell unto me? I am a bold harper, quoth Robin Hood, And the best in the north country.

O welcome, O welcome, the bishop then said, That music best pleaseth me; You shall have no music, quoth Robin Hood, Till the bride and bridegroom I see.

With that came in a wealthy knight, Who was both grave and old; And after him a finikin lass, That did shine like glittering gold.

This is not a fit match, quoth bold Robin Hood, That you do seem to make here; For since we are come into the church, The bride shall choose her own dear.

Then Robin Hood put his horn to his mouth, And blew blasts two or three; Then four and twenty bowmen bold Came leaping over the lea.

And when they came into the churchyard, Marching all on a row, The first man was Allen-a-Dale, To give bold Robin his bow.

This is thy true love, Robin he said, Young Allen, as I have heard say, And thou shalt be married at this same time, Before we depart away.

That shalt not be, the bishop he said, For thy word shall not stand; They shall be three times asked in the church, As the law is of our land.



Robin Hood pull'd off the bishop's coat, And put it upon Little John; By the faith of my body, then Robin he said, This cloth doth make thee a man.

When Little John went to the quire, The people began to laugh: He ask'd them seven times in the church, Lest three times should not be enough.

Who gives this maid? said Little John; Quoth Robin, that do I; And he that takes her from Allen-a-Dale, Full dearly shall her buy.

And thus having ended this merry wedding, The bride she looked like a queen! And so they returned to the merry green wood, Amongst the leaves so green.

FOOTNOTES:

[131] Stop.



VALENTINE AND URSINE.

PART THE FIRST.

When Flora 'gins to deck the fields With colours fresh and fine, Then holy clerks their matins sing To good Saint Valentine!

The king of France that morning fair He would a hunting ride: To Artois forest prancing forth In all his princely pride.

To grace his sports a courtly train Of gallant peers attend; And with their loud and cheerful cries The hills and valleys rend.

Through the deep forest swift they pass, Through woods and thickets wild; When down within a lonely dell They found a new-born child;

All in a scarlet kercher laid Of silk so fine and thin: A golden mantle wrapt him round Pinn'd with a silver pin.

The sudden sight surpris'd them all; The courtiers gather'd round; They look, they call, the mother seek; No mother could be found.

At length the king himself drew near, And as he gazing stands, The pretty babe look'd up and smil'd, And stretch'd his little hands.

Now, by the rood, king Pepin says, This child is passing fair: I wot he is of gentle blood; Perhaps some prince's heir.

Go bear him home unto my court With all the care ye may: Let him be christen'd Valentine, In honour of this day:

And look me out some cunning nurse; Well nurtur'd let him be: Nor aught be wanting that becomes A bairn of high degree.

They look'd him out a cunning nurse, And nurtur'd well was he; Nor aught was wanting that became A bairn of high degree.

Thus grew the little Valentine, Belov'd of king and peers; And show'd in all he spake or did A wit beyond his years.

But chief in gallant feats of arms He did himself advance, And ere he grew to man's estate He had no peer in France.

And now the early down began To shade his youthful chin; When Valentine was dubb'd a knight, That he might glory win.

A boon, a boon, my gracious liege, I beg a boon of thee! The first adventure that befalls May be reserv'd for me.

The first adventure shall be thine, The king did smiling say. Nor many days, when lo! there came Three palmers clad in gray.

Help, gracious lord, they weeping said; And knelt, as it was meet: From Artois forest we be come, With weak and weary feet.

Within those deep and dreary woods There wends a savage boy; Whose fierce and mortal rage doth yield Thy subjects dire annoy.

'Mong ruthless bears he sure was bred; He lurks within their den: With bears he lives, with bears he feeds, And drinks the blood of men.

To more than savage strength he joins A more than human skill: For arms, no cunning may suffice His cruel rage to still:

Up then rose sir Valentine, And claim'd that arduous deed. Go forth and conquer, said the king, And great shall be thy meed.

Well mounted on a milk-white steed, His armour white as snow; As well beseem'd a virgin knight, Who ne'er had fought a foe:

To Artois forest he repairs With all the haste he may; And soon he spies the savage youth A rending of his prey.

His unkempt hair all matted hung His shaggy shoulders round: His eager eye all fiery glow'd: His face with fury frown'd.

Like eagle's talons grew his nails: His limbs were thick and strong; And dreadful was the knotted oak He bare with him along.

Soon as sir Valentine approach'd, He starts with sudden spring; And yelling forth a hideous howl, He made the forests ring.

As when a tiger fierce and fell Hath spied a passing roe, And leaps at once upon his throat; So sprung the savage foe.

So lightly leap'd with furious force The gentle knight to seize: But met his tall uplifted spear, Which sunk him on his knees.

A second stroke so stiff and stern Had laid the savage low; But springing up, he rais'd his club, And aim'd a dreadful blow.

The watchful warrior bent his head, And shunn'd the coming stroke; Upon his taper spear it fell, And all to shivers broke.

Then lighting nimbly from his steed, He drew his burnished brand: The savage quick as lightning flew To wrest it from his hand.

Three times he grasp'd the silver hilt; Three times he felt the blade; Three times it fell with furious force; Three ghastly wounds it made.

Now with redoubled rage he roar'd; His eye-ball flash'd with fire; Each hairy limb with fury shook; And all his heart was ire.

Then closing fast with furious gripe He clasp'd the champion round, And with a strong and sudden twist He laid him on the ground.

But soon the knight, with active spring, O'erturn'd his hairy foe: And now between their sturdy fists Passed many a bruising blow.



They roll'd and grappled on the ground, And there they struggled long: Skilful and active was the knight; The savage he was strong.

But brutal force and savage strength To art and skill must yield: Sir Valentine at length prevail'd, And won the well-fought field.

Then binding straight his conquer'd foe Fast with an iron chain, He ties him to his horse's tail, And leads him o'er the plain.

To court his hairy captive soon Sir Valentine doth bring; And kneeling down upon his knee, Presents him to the king.

With loss of blood and loss of strength, The savage tamer grew; And to sir Valentine became A servant tried and true.

And 'cause with bears he erst was bred, Ursine they call his name; A name which unto future times The Muses shall proclaim.

PART THE SECOND.

In high renown with prince and peer Now liv'd sir Valentine: His high renown with prince and peer Made envious hearts repine.

It chanc'd the king upon a day Prepar'd a sumptuous feast: And there came lords and dainty dames, And many a noble guest.

Amid their cups, that freely flow'd, Their revelry, and mirth, A youthful knight tax'd Valentine Of base and doubtful birth.

The foul reproach, so grossly urg'd, His generous heart did wound: And straight he vow'd he ne'er would rest Till he his parents found.

Then bidding king and peers adieu, Early one summer's day, With faithful Ursine by his side, From court he took his way.

O'er hill and valley, moss and moor, For many a day they pass; At length, upon a moated lake,[132] They found a bridge of brass.

Beyond it rose a castle fair, Y-built of marble stone: The battlements were gilt with gold, And glittered in the sun.

Beneath the bridge, with strange device, A hundred bells were hung; That man, nor beast, might pass thereon, But straight their larum rung.

This quickly found the youthful pair, Who boldly crossing o'er, The jangling sound bedeaft their ears, And rung from shore to shore.

Quick at the sound the castle gates Unlock'd and opened wide, And straight a giant huge and grim Stalk'd forth with stately pride.

Now yield you, caitiffs, to my will, He cried with hideous roar; Or else the wolves shall eat your flesh, And ravens drink your gore.

Vain boaster, said the youthful knight, I scorn thy threats and thee: I trust to force thy brazen gates, And set thy captives free.

Then putting spurs unto his steed, He aim'd a dreadful thrust; The spear against the giant glanc'd, And caus'd the blood to burst.

Mad and outrageous with the pain, He whirl'd his mace of steel: The very wind of such a blow Had made the champion reel.

It haply missed; and now the knight His glittering sword display'd, And riding round with whirlwind speed Oft made him feel the blade.

As when a large and monstrous oak Unceasing axes hew: So fast around the giant's limbs The blows quick-darting flew.

As when the boughs with hideous fall Some hapless woodman crush: With such a force the enormous foe Did on the champion rush.

A fearful blow, alas! there came, Both horse and knight it took, And laid them senseless in the dust; So fatal was the stroke.

Then smiling forth a hideous grin, The giant strides in haste, And, stooping, aims a second stroke: Now, caitiff, breathe thy last!

But ere it fell, two thundering blows Upon his scull descend: From Ursine's knotty club they came, Who ran to save his friend.

Down sank the giant gaping wide, And rolling his grim eyes: The hairy youth repeats his blows: He gasps, he groans, he dies.

Quickly sir Valentine reviv'd, With Ursine's timely care: And now to search the castle walls The venturous youths repair.

The blood and bones of murder'd knight They found where'er they came: At length within a lonely cell They saw a mournful dame.

Her gentle eyes were dimm'd with tears; Her cheeks were pale with woe; And long sir Valentine besought Her doleful tale to know.

Alas! young knight, she weeping said, Condole my wretched fate; A childless mother here you see; A wife without a mate.

These twenty winters here forlorn I've drawn my hated breath; Sole witness of a monster's crimes, And wishing aye for death.

Know, I am sister of a king, And in my early years Was married to a mighty prince, The fairest of his peers.

With him I sweetly liv'd in love A twelvemonth and a day: When, lo! a foul and treacherous priest Y-wrought our loves' decay.

His seeming goodness won him pow'r; He had his master's ear: And long to me and all the world He did a saint appear.

One day, when we were all alone, He proffer'd odious love: The wretch with horror I repuls'd, And from my presence drove.

He feign'd remorse, and piteous begg'd His crime I'd not reveal: Which, for his seeming penitence, I promis'd to conceal.

With treason, villainy, and wrong, My goodness he repay'd: With jealous doubts he fill'd my lord, And me to woe betray'd.

He hid a slave within my bed, Then rais'd a bitter cry. My lord, possess'd with rage, condemn'd Me, all unheard, to die.

But 'cause I then was great with child, At length my life he spar'd: But bade me instant quit the realm, One trusty knight my guard.

Forth on my journey I depart, Oppressed with grief and woe: And tow'rds my brother's distant court, With breaking heart, I go.

Long time thro' sundry foreign lands We slowly pace along: At length, within a forest wild, I fell in labour strong:

And while the knight for succour sought, And left me there forlorn, My childbed pains so fast increas'd Two lovely boys were born.

The eldest fair and smooth as snow That tips the mountain hoar; The younger's little body rough With hairs was cover'd o'er.

But here afresh begin my woes: While tender care I took To shield my eldest from the cold, And wrap him in my cloak,

A prowling bear burst from the wood, And seiz'd my younger son: Affection lent my weakness wings, And after them I run.

But all forwearied, weak, and spent, I quickly swoon'd away; And there beneath the greenwood shade Long time I lifeless lay.

At length the knight brought me relief, And rais'd me from the ground: But neither of my pretty babes Could ever more be found.

And, while in search we wander'd far, We met that giant grim; Who ruthless slew my trusty knight, And bare me off with him.

But charm'd by heav'n, or else my griefs, He offer'd me no wrong; Save that within these lonely walls I've been immur'd so long.

Now surely, said the youthful knight, You are Lady Ballisance, Wife to the Grecian Emperor: Your brother's king of France.

For in your royal brother's court Myself my breeding had; Where oft the story of your woes Hath made my bosom sad.

If so, know your accuser's dead, And dying own'd his crime; And long your lord hath sought you out Thro' every foreign clime.

And when no tidings he could learn Of his much wronged wife, He vow'd thenceforth within his court To lead a hermit's life.

Now heaven is kind! the lady said; And dropped a joyful tear: Shall I once more behold my lord? That lord I love so dear?

But, madam, said sir Valentine, And knelt upon his knee; Know you the cloak that wrapt your babe, If you the same should see?

And pulling forth the cloth of gold, In which himself was found; The lady gave a sudden shriek, And fainted on the ground.

But by his pious care reviv'd, His tale she heard anon; And soon by other tokens found, He was indeed her son.

But who's this hairy youth? she said; He much resembles thee: The bear devour'd my younger son, Or sure that son were he.

Madam, this youth with bears was bred, And rear'd within their den. But recollect ye any mark To know your son again?

Upon his little side, quoth she, Was stamped a bloody rose. Here, lady, see the crimson mark Upon his body grows!

Then clasping both her new-found sons She bath'd their cheeks with tears: And soon towards her brother's court Her joyful course she steers.

What pen can paint king Pepin's joy, His sister thus restor'd! And soon a messenger was sent To cheer her drooping lord:

Who came in haste with all his peers, To fetch her home to Greece; Where many happy years they reign'd In perfect love and peace.

To them sir Ursine did succeed, And long the sceptre bear. Sir Valentine he stay'd in France, And was his uncle's heir.

FOOTNOTES:

[132] i.e. A lake that served for a moat to a castle.



THE KING AND MILLER OF MANSFIELD.

PART THE FIRST.

Henry, our royal king, would ride a hunting To the green forest, so pleasant and fair; To see the harts skipping, and dainty does tripping: Unto merry Sherwood his nobles repair: Hawk and hound were unbound, all things prepar'd For the game, in the same, with good regard.

All a long summer's day rode the king pleasantly, With all his princes and nobles each one; Chasing the hart and hind, and the buck gallantly, Till the dark evening forc'd all to turn home. Then at last, riding fast, he had lost quite All his lords in the wood, late in the night.

Wandering thus wearily, all alone, up and down, With a rude miller he met at the last: Asking the ready way unto fair Nottingham; Sir, quoth the miller, I mean not to jest, Yet I think, what I think, sooth for to say, You do not lightly ride out of your way.

Why, what dost thou think of me, quoth our king merrily, Passing thy judgment upon me so brief? Good faith, said the miller, I mean not to flatter thee; I guess thee to be but some gentleman thief; Stand thee back, in the dark; light not adown, Lest that I presently crack thy knave's crown.

Thou dost abuse me much, quoth the king, saying thus; I am a gentleman; lodging I lack. Thou hast not, quoth th' miller, one groat in thy purse; All thy inheritance hangs on thy back. I have gold to discharge all that I call;[133] If it be forty pence, I will pay all.

If thou beest a true man, then quoth the miller, I swear by my toll-dish, I'll lodge thee all night. Here's my hand, quoth the king; that was I ever. Nay, soft, quoth the miller, thou may'st be a sprite. Better I'll know thee, ere hands we will shake; With none but honest men hands will I take.

Thus they went all along unto the miller's house: Where they were seething of puddings and souse: The miller first enter'd in; after him went the king; Never came he in so smoky a house. Now, quoth he, let me see here what you are. Quoth our king, look your fill, and do not spare.

I like well thy countenance; thou hast an honest face; With my son Richard this night thou shalt lie. Quoth his wife, by my troth, it is a handsome youth; Yet it's best, husband, to deal warily. Art thou no runaway, prythee, youth, tell? Show me thy passport, and all shall be well.

Then our king presently, making low courtesy, With his hat in his hand, thus he did say; I have no passport, nor never was servitor, But a poor courtier, rode out of my way: And for your kindness here offered to me, I will requite you in every degree.

Then to the miller his wife whispered secretly, Saying, It seemeth this youth's of good kin, Both by his apparel, and eke by his manners; To turn him out, certainly, were a great sin. Yea, quoth he, you may see he hath some grace When he doth speak to his betters in place.

Well, quo' the miller's wife, young man, ye're welcome here; And, though I say it, well lodged shall be: Fresh straw will I have laid on thy bed so brave, And good brown hempen sheets likewise, quoth she. Aye, quoth the good man; and when that is done, Thou shalt lie with no worse than our own son.



This caus'd the king, suddenly, to laugh most heartily, Till the tears trickled fast down from his eyes. Then to their supper were they set orderly, With hot bag-puddings and good apple-pies; Nappy ale, good and stale, in a brown bowl, Which did about the board merrily trowl.

Here, quoth the miller, good fellow, I drink to thee, And to all courtiers, wherever they be. I pledge thee, quoth our king, and thank thee heartily For my welcome in every good degree: And here, in like manner, I drink to thy son. Do then, quoth Richard, and quick let it come.

Wife, quoth the miller, fetch me forth lightfoot, And of his sweetness a little we'll taste. A fair ven'son pasty brought she out presently. Eat, quoth the miller, but, sir, make no waste. Here's dainty lightfoot! In faith, said the king, I never before eat so dainty a thing.

I wis, quoth Richard, no dainty at all it is, For we do eat of it every day. In what place, said our king, may be bought like to this? We never pay penny for it, by my fay: From merry Sherwood we fetch it home here; Now and then we make bold with our king's deer.

Then I think, said our king, that it is venison. Each fool, quoth Richard, full well may know that: Never are we without two or three in the roof, Very well fleshed, and excellent fat: But, prythee, say nothing wherever thou go; We would not, for two pence, the king should it know.

Doubt not, then said the king, my promised secrecy; The king shall never know more on't for me. A cup of lambs-wool[134] they drank unto him then, And to their beds they passed presently. The nobles, next morning, went all up and down, For to seek out the king in every town.

At last, at the miller's cot, soon they espy'd him out, As he was mounting upon his fair steed; To whom they came presently, falling down on their knee; Which made the miller's heart wofully bleed; Shaking and quaking, before him he stood, Thinking he should have been hang'd, by the Rood.

The king perceiving him fearfully trembling Drew forth his sword, but nothing he said: The miller down did fall, crying before them all, Doubting the king would cut off his head. But he, his kind courtesy for to requite, Gave him great living, and dubb'd him a knight.

PART THE SECOND.

When as our royal king came home from Nottingham, And with his nobles at Westminster lay; Recounting the sports and pastimes they had taken, In this late progress along on the way; Of them all, great and small, he did protest, The miller of Mansfield's sport liked him best.

And now, my lords, quoth the king, I am determined Against St. George's next sumptuous feast, That this old miller, our new confirmed knight, With his son Richard, shall here be my guest: For, in this merriment, 'tis my desire To talk with the jolly knight, and the young squire.

When as the noble lords saw the king's pleasantness, They were right joyful and glad in their hearts: A pursuivant there was sent straight on the business, The which had oftentimes been in those parts. When he came to the place, where they did dwell, His message orderly then 'gan he tell.

God save your worship, then said the messenger, And grant your lady her own heart's desire; And to your son Richard good fortune and happiness; That sweet, gentle, and gallant young squire. Our king greets you well, and thus he doth say, You must come to the court on St. George's day.

Therefore, in any case, fail not to be in place. I wis, quoth the miller, this is an odd jest: What should we do there? faith, I am half afraid. I doubt, quoth Richard, to be hang'd at the least. Nay, quoth the messenger, you do mistake; Our king he provides a great feast for your sake.

Then said the miller, By my troth, messenger, Thou hast contented my worship full well. Hold, here are three farthings, to quite thy gentleness, For these happy tidings which thou dost tell. Let me see, hear thou me; tell to our king, We'll wait on his mastership in everything.

The pursuivant smiled at their simplicity, And, making many legs, took the reward; And his leave taking with great humility To the king's court again he repaired; Showing unto his grace, merry and free, The knight's most liberal gift and bounty.

When he was gone away, thus 'gan the miller say, Here come expenses and charges indeed; Now must we needs be brave, tho' we spend all we have; For of new garments we have great need: Of horses and serving-men we must have store, With bridles and saddles, and twenty things more.

Tush, sir John, quo' his wife, why should you fret, or frown? You shall ne'er be at no charges for me; For I will turn and trim up my old russet gown, With everything else as fine as may be; And on our mill-horses swift we will ride, With pillows and pannels, as we shall provide.

In this most stately sort, rode they unto the court, Their jolly son Richard rode foremost of all; Who set up, for good hap,[135] a cock's feather in his cap, And so they jetted[136] down to the king's hall; The merry old miller with hands on his side; His wife, like maid Marian, did mince at that tide.

The king and his nobles that heard of their coming, Meeting this gallant knight with his brave train; Welcome, sir knight, quoth he, with your gay lady: Good sir John Cockle, once welcome again: And so is the squire of courage so free. Quoth Dick, A bots on you! do you know me?

The king and his courtiers laugh at this heartily, While the king taketh them both by the hand; With the court-dames and maids, like to the queen of spades, The miller's wife did so orderly stand. A milk-maid's courtesy at every word; And down all the folks were set to the board.

There the king royally, in princely majesty, Sate at his dinner with joy and delight; When they had eaten well, then he to jesting fell, And in a bowl of wine drank to the knight: Here's to you both, in wine, ale, and beer; Thanking you heartily for my good cheer.

Quoth sir John Cockle, I'll pledge you a pottle, Were it the best ale in Nottinghamshire: But then, said our king, now I think of a thing; Some of your lightfoot I would we had here. Ho! ho! quoth Richard, full well I may say it, 'Tis knavery to eat it, and then to betray it.

Why art thou angry? quoth our king merrily; In faith I take it now very unkind: I thought thou wouldst pledge me in ale and wine heartily. Quoth Dick, You are like to stay till I have din'd: You feed us with twatling dishes so small; Zounds, a black-pudding is better than all.

Thus in great merriment was the time wholly spent; And then the ladies prepared to dance. Old Sir John Cockle, and Richard, incontinent Unto their places the king did advance. Here with the ladies such sport they did make, The nobles with laughing did make their sides ache.

Many thanks for their pains did the king give them, Asking young Richard then, if he would wed; Among these ladies free, tell me which liketh thee? Quoth he, Jugg Grumball, Sir, with the red head: She's my love, she's my life, her will I wed; She hath sworn I shall have her wedding bed.

Then sir John Cockle the king called unto him, And of merry Sherwood made him o'erseer; And gave him out of hand three hundred pound yearly: Take heed now you steal no more of my deer: And once a quarter let's here have your view; And now, sir John Cockle, I bid you adieu.

FOOTNOTES:

[133] The king says this.

[134] Ale and roasted apples.

[135] For good luck.

[136] Strutted.



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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE. - Inconsistent hyphenation has been standardised within each poem. - All spelling variantions and accents have been left as originally printed. - To match the table of contents, section headings within "Sir Andrew Barton" have been changed as follows: THE FIRST PART ==> PART THE FIRST THE SECOND PART ==> PART THE SECOND

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