Chapter 8

Gil Morice sate in gude grene wode, He whistled and he sang: O what mean a' the folk comìng, My mother tarries lang. His hair was like the threeds of gold, Drawne frae Minerva's loome: His lipps like roses drapping dew, His breath was a' perfume.

His brow was like the mountain snae Gilt by the morning beam: His cheeks like living roses glow: His een like azure stream. The boy was clad in robes of grene, Sweete as the infant spring: And like the mavis on the bush, He gart the vallies ring.

The baron came to the grene wode, Wi' mickle dule and care, And there he first spied Gill Morice Kameing his zellow hair: That sweetly wavd around his face, That face beyond compare: He sang sae sweet it might dispel A' rage but fell despair.

Nae wonder, nae wonder, Gill Morìce, My lady loed thee weel, The fairest part of my bodie Is blacker than thy heel. Zet neir the less now, Gill Morìce, For a' thy great beautiè, Ze's rew the day ze eir was born; That head sall gae wi' me.

Now he has drawn his trusty brand, And slaited on the strae; And thro' Gill Morice' fair body He's gar cauld iron gae. And he has tain Gill Morice's head And set it on a speir; The meanest man in a' his train Has gotten that head to bear.

And he has tain Gill Morice up, Laid him across his steid, And brocht him to his painted bowr, And laid him on a bed. The lady sat on castil wa', Beheld baith dale and doun; And there she saw Gill Morice' head Cum trailing to the toun.

Far better I loe that bluidy head, Both and that zellow hair, Than Lord Barnard, and a' his lands, As they lig here and thair. And she has tain her Gill Morice, And kissd baith mouth and chin: I was once as fow of Gill Morice, As the hip is o' the stean.

I got ze in my father's house, Wi' mickle sin and shame; I brocht thee up in gude grene wode, Under the heavy rain. Oft have I by thy cradle sitten, And fondly seen thee sleip; But now I gae about thy grave, The saut tears for to weip.

And syne she kissd his bluidy cheik, And syne his bluidy chin: O better I loe my Gill Morice Than a' my kith and kin! Away, away, ze ill womàn, And an il deith mait ze dee: Gin I had kend he'd bin zour son, He'd neir bin slain for mee.

Obraid me not, my Lord Barnard! Obraid me not for shame! Wi' that saim speir O pierce my heart! And put me out o' pain. Since nothing bot Gill Morice head Thy jelous rage could quell, Let that saim hand now tak hir life, That neir to thee did ill.

To me nae after days nor nichts Will eir be saft or kind; I'll fill the air with heavy sighs, And greet till I am blind. Enouch of blood by me's been spilt, Seek not zour death frae mee; I rather lourd it had been my sel Than eather him or thee.

With waefo wae I hear zour plaint; Sair, sair I rew the deid, That eir this cursed hand of mine Had gard his body bleid. Dry up zour tears, my winsome dame, Ze neir can heal the wound; Ze see his head upon the speir, His heart's blude on the ground.

I curse the hand that did the deid, The heart that thocht the ill; The feet that bore me wi' sik speid, The comely zouth to kill. I'll ay lament for Gill Morice, As gin he were mine ain; I'll neir forget the dreiry day On which the zouth was slain.

The CHILD of ELLE

On yondre hill a castle standes With walles and towres bedight, And yonder lives the Child of Elle, A younge and comely knighte.

The Child of Elle to his garden went, And stood at his garden pale, Whan, lo! he beheld fair Emmelines page Come trippinge downe the dale.

The Child of Elle he hyed him thence, Y-wis he stoode not stille, And soone he mette faire Emmelines page Come climbinge up the hille.

Nowe Christe thee save, thou little foot-page, Now Christe thee save and see! Oh telle me how does thy ladye gaye, And what may thy tydinges bee?

My ladye shee is all woe-begone, And the teares they falle from her eyne; And aye she laments the deadlye feude Betweene her house and thine.

And here shee sends thee a silken scarfe Bedewde with many a teare, And biddes thee sometimes thinke on her, Who loved thee so deare.

And here shee sends thee a ring of golde The last boone thou mayst have, And biddes thee weare it for her sake, Whan she is layde in grave.

For, ah! her gentle heart is broke, And in grave soone must shee bee, Sith her father hath chose her a new new love, And forbidde her to think of thee.

Her father hath brought her a carlish knight, Sir John of the north countràye, And within three dayes she must him wedde, Or he vowes he will her slaye.

Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page, And greet thy ladye from mee, And telle her that I her owne true love Will dye, or sette her free.

Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page, And let thy fair ladye know This night will I bee at her bowre-windòwe, Betide me weale or woe.

The boye he tripped, the boye he ranne, He neither stint ne stayd Untill he came to fair Emmelines bowre, Whan kneeling downe he sayd,

O ladye, I've been with thine own true love, And he greets thee well by mee; This night will hee bee at thy bowre-windòwe, And dye or sett thee free.

Nowe daye was gone, and night was come, And all were fast asleepe, All save the Ladye Emmeline, Who sate in her bowre to weepe:

And soone shee heard her true loves voice Lowe whispering at the walle, Awake, awake, my deare ladyè, Tis I thy true love call.

Awake, awake, my ladye deare, Come, mount this faire palfràye: This ladder of ropes will lette thee downe He carrye thee hence awaye.

Nowe nay, nowe nay, thou gentle knight, Nowe nay, this may not bee; For aye shold I tint my maiden fame, If alone I should wend with thee.

O ladye, thou with a knighte so true Mayst safelye wend alone, To my ladye mother I will thee bringe, Where marriage shall make us one.

"My father he is a baron bolde, Of lynage proude and hye; And what would he saye if his daughtèr Awaye with a knight should fly

"Ah! well I wot, he never would rest, Nor his meate should doe him no goode, Until he hath slayne thee, Child of Elle, And scene thy deare hearts bloode."

O ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, And a little space him fro, I would not care for thy cruel fathèr, Nor the worst that he could doe.

O ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, And once without this walle, I would not care for thy cruel fathèr Nor the worst that might befalle.

Faire Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept, And aye her heart was woe: At length he seized her lilly-white hand, And downe the ladder he drewe:

And thrice he clasped her to his breste, And kist her tenderlìe: The teares that fell from her fair eyes Ranne like the fountayne free.

Hee mounted himselfe on his steede so talle, And her on a fair palfràye, And slung his bugle about his necke, And roundlye they rode awaye.

All this beheard her owne damsèlle, In her bed whereas shee ley, Quoth shee, My lord shall knowe of this, Soe I shall have golde and fee.

Awake, awake, thou baron bolde! Awake, my noble dame! Your daughter is fledde with the Child of Elle To doe the deede of shame.

The baron he woke, the baron he rose, And called his merrye men all: "And come thou forth, Sir John the knighte, Thy ladye is carried to thrall."

Faire Emmeline scant had ridden a mile, A mile forth of the towne, When she was aware of her fathers men Come galloping over the downe:

And foremost came the carlish knight, Sir John of the north countràye: "Nowe stop, nowe stop, thou false traitòure, Nor carry that ladye awaye.

"For she is come of hye lineàge, And was of a ladye borne, And ill it beseems thee, a false churl's sonne, To carrye her hence to scorne."

Nowe loud thou lyest, Sir John the knight, Nowe thou doest lye of mee; A knight mee gott, and a ladye me bore, Soe never did none by thee

But light nowe downe, my ladye faire, Light downe, and hold my steed, While I and this discourteous knighte Doe trye this arduous deede.

But light now downe, my deare ladyè, Light downe, and hold my horse; While I and this discourteous knight Doe trye our valour's force.

Fair Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept, And aye her heart was woe, While twixt her love and the carlish knight Past many a baleful blowe.

The Child of Elle hee fought so well, As his weapon he waved amaine, That soone he had slaine the carlish knight, And layd him upon the plaine.

And nowe the baron and all his men Full fast approached nye: Ah! what may ladye Emmeline doe Twere nowe no boote to flye.

Her lover he put his horne to his mouth, And blew both loud and shrill, And soone he saw his owne merry men Come ryding over the hill.

"Nowe hold thy hand, thou bold baròn, I pray thee hold thy hand, Nor ruthless rend two gentle hearts Fast knit in true love's band.

Thy daughter I have dearly loved Full long and many a day; But with such love as holy kirke Hath freelye sayd wee may.

O give consent, shee may be mine, And blesse a faithfull paire: My lands and livings are not small, My house and lineage faire:

My mother she was an earl's daughtèr, And a noble knyght my sire-- The baron he frowned, and turn'd away With mickle dole and ire.

Fair Emmeline sighed, faire Emmeline wept, And did all tremblinge stand: At lengthe she sprang upon her knee, And held his lifted hand.

Pardon, my lorde and father deare, This faire yong knyght and mee: Trust me, but for the carlish knyght, I never had fled from thee.

Oft have you called your Emmeline Your darling and your joye; O let not then your harsh resolves Your Emmeline destroye.

The baron he stroakt his dark-brown cheeke, And turned his heade asyde To whipe awaye the starting teare He proudly strave to hyde.

In deepe revolving thought he stoode, And mused a little space; Then raised faire Emmeline from the grounde, With many a fond embrace.

Here take her, Child of Elle, he sayd, And gave her lillye white hand; Here take my deare and only child, And with her half my land:

Thy father once mine honour wrongde In dayes of youthful pride; Do thou the injurye repayre In fondnesse for thy bride.

And as thou love her, and hold her deare, Heaven prosper thee and thine: And nowe my blessing wend wi' thee, My lovelye Emmeline.

CHILD WATERS

Childe Waters in his stable stoode And stroakt his milke white steede: To him a fayre yonge ladye came As ever ware womans weede.

Sayes, Christ you save, good Childe Waters; Sayes, Christ you save, and see: My girdle of gold that was too longe, Is now too short for mee.

And all is with one chyld of yours, I feel sturre att my side: My gowne of greene it is too straighte; Before, it was too wide.

If the child be mine, faire Ellen, he sayd, Be mine, as you tell mee; Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire both, Take them your owne to bee.

If the childe be mine, fair Ellen, he sayd, Be mine, as you doe sweare; Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire both, And make that child your heyre.

Shee saies, I had rather have one kisse, Child Waters, of thy mouth; Than I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire both, That laye by north and south.

And I had rather have one twinkling, Childe Waters, of thine ee; Then I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire both, To take them mine owne to bee.

To morrow, Ellen, I must forth ryde Farr into the north countrie; The fairest lady that I can find, Ellen, must goe with mee.

'Thoughe I am not that lady fayre, 'Yet let me go with thee:' And ever I pray you, Child Watèrs, Your foot-page let me bee.

If you will my foot-page be, Ellen, As you doe tell to mee; Then you must cut your gowne of greene, An inch above your knee:

Soe must you doe your yellow lockes, An inch above your ee: You must tell no man what is my name; My foot-page then you shall bee.

Shee, all the long day Child Waters rode, Ran barefoote by his side; Yett was he never soe courteous a knighte, To say, Ellen, will you ryde?

Shee, all the long day Child Waters rode, Ran barefoote thorow the broome; Yett hee was never soe curteous a knighte, To say, put on your shoone.

Ride softlye, shee sayd, O Childe Waters, Why doe you ryde soe fast? The childe, which is no mans but thine, My bodye itt will brast.

Hee sayth, seeth thou yonder water, Ellen, That flows from bank to brimme?-- I trust to God, O Child Waters, You never will see mee swimme.

But when shee came to the waters side, Shee sayled to the chinne: Except the Lord of heaven be my speed, Now must I learne to swimme.

The salt waters bare up her clothes; Our Ladye bare upp her chinne: Childe Waters was a woe man, good Lord, To see faire Ellen swimme.

And when shee over the water was, Shee then came to his knee: He said, Come hither, thou fair Ellèn, Loe yonder what I see.

Seest thou not yonder hall, Ellen? Of redd gold shines the yate; Of twenty foure faire ladyes there, The fairest is my mate.

Seest thou not yonder hall, Ellen? Of redd gold shines the towre: There are twenty four fair ladyes there, The fairest is my paramoure.

I see the hall now, Child Waters, Of redd golde shines the yate: God give you good now of yourselfe, And of your worthye mate.

I see the hall now, Child Waters, Of redd gold shines the towre: God give you good now of yourselfe, And of your paramoure.

There twenty four fayre ladyes were A playing att the ball: And Ellen the fairest ladye there, Must bring his steed to the stall.

There twenty four fayre ladyes were A playinge at the chesse; And Ellen the fayrest ladye there, Must bring his horse to gresse.

And then bespake Childe Waters sister, These were the wordes said shee: You have the prettyest foot-page, brother, That ever I saw with mine ee.

But that his bellye it is soe bigg, His girdle goes wonderous hie: And let him, I pray you, Childe Watères, Goe into the chamber with mee.

It is not fit for a little foot-page, That has run throughe mosse and myre, To go into the chamber with any ladye, That weares soe riche attyre.

It is more meete for a litle foot-page, That has run throughe mosse and myre, To take his supper upon his knee, And sitt downe by the kitchen fyer.

But when they had supped every one, To bedd they tooke theyr waye: He sayd, come hither, my little foot-page, And hearken what I saye.

Goe thee downe into yonder towne, And low into the street; The fayrest ladye that thou can finde,

Hyer her in mine armes to sleepe, And take her up in thine armes twaine, For filinge of her feete.

Ellen is gone into the towne, And low into the streete: The fairest ladye that she cold find, Shee hyred in his armes to sleepe; And tooke her up in her armes twayne, For filing of her feete.

I pray you nowe, good Child Watèrs, Let mee lye at your bedds feete: For there is noe place about this house, Where I may 'saye a sleepe.

'He gave her leave, and faire Ellèn 'Down at his beds feet laye:' This done the nighte drove on apace, And when it was neare the daye,

Hee sayd, Rise up, my litle foot-page, Give my steede corne and haye; And soe doe thou the good black oats, To carry mee better awaye.

Up then rose the faire Ellèn, And gave his steede corne and hay: And soe shee did the good blacke oats, To carry him the better away.

Shee leaned her backe to the manger side, And grievouslye did groane: Shee leaned her backe to the manger side, And there shee made her moane.

And that beheard his mother deere, Shee heard her there monand. Shee sayd, Rise up, thou Childe Watèrs, I think thee a cursed man.

For in thy stable is a ghost, That grievouslye doth grone: Or else some woman laboures of childe, She is soe woe-begone.

Up then rose Childe Waters soon, And did on his shirte of silke; And then he put on his other clothes, On his body as white as milke.

And when he came to the stable dore, Full still there he did stand, That hee mighte heare his fayre Ellèn Howe shee made her monànd.

Shee sayd, Lullabye, mine owne deere child, Lullabye, dere child, dere; I wold thy father were a king, Thy mother layd on a biere.

Peace now, he said, good faire Ellèn, Be of good cheere, I praye; And the bridal and the churching both Shall bee upon one day.

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KING EDWARD IV & THE TANNER OF TAMWORTH

In summer time, when leaves grow greene, And blossoms bedecke the tree, King Edward wolde a hunting ryde, Some pastime for to see.

With hawke and hounde he made him bowne, With horne, and eke with bowe; To Drayton Basset he tooke his waye, With all his lordes a rowe.

And he had ridden ore dale and downe By eight of clocke in the day, When he was ware of a bold tannèr, Come ryding along the waye.

A fayre russet coat the tanner had on Fast buttoned under his chin, And under him a good cow-hide, And a marc of four shilling.

Nowe stand you still, my good lordes all, Under the grene wood spraye; And I will wend to yonder fellowe, To weet what he will saye.

God speede, God speede thee, said our king. Thou art welcome, Sir, sayd hee. "The readyest waye to Drayton Basset I praye thee to shew to mee."

"To Drayton Basset woldst thou goe, Fro the place where thou dost stand? The next payre of gallowes thou comest unto, Turne in upon thy right hand."

That is an unreadye waye, sayd our king, Thou doest but jest, I see; Nowe shewe me out the nearest waye, And I pray thee wend with mee.

Away with a vengeance! quoth the tanner: I hold thee out of thy witt: All daye have I rydden on Brocke my mare, And I am fasting yett.

"Go with me downe to Drayton Basset, No daynties we will spare; All daye shalt thou eate and drinke of the best, And I will paye thy fare."

Gramercye for nothing, the tanner replyde, Thou payest no fare of mine: I trowe I've more nobles in my purse, Than thou hast pence in thine.

God give thee joy of them, sayd the king, And send them well to priefe. The tanner wolde faine have beene away, For he weende he had beene a thiefe.

What art thou, hee sayde, thou fine fellowe, Of thee I am in great feare, For the clothes, thou wearest upon thy back, Might beseeme a lord to weare.

I never stole them, quoth our king, I tell you, Sir, by the roode. "Then thou playest, as many an unthrift doth, And standest in midds of thy goode."

What tydinges heare you, sayd the kynge, As you ryde farre and neare? "I heare no tydinges, Sir, by the masse, But that cowe-hides are deare."

"Cow-hides! cow-hides! what things are those? I marvell what they bee?" What, art thou a foole? the tanner reply'd; I carry one under mee.

What craftsman art thou, said the king, I pray thee tell me trowe. "I am a barker, Sir, by my trade; Nowe tell me what art thou?"

I am a poor courtier, Sir, quoth he, That am forth of service worne; And faine I wolde thy prentise bee, Thy cunninge for to learne.

Marrye heaven forfend, the tanner replyde, That thou my prentise were: Thou woldst spend more good than I shold winne By fortye shilling a yere.

Yet one thinge wolde I, sayd our king, If thou wilt not seeme strange: Thoughe my horse be better than thy mare, Yet with thee I fain wold change.

"Why if with me thou faine wilt change, As change full well maye wee, By the faith of my bodye, thou proude fellowe I will have some boot of thee."

That were against reason, sayd the king, I sweare, so mote I thee: My horse is better than thy mare, And that thou well mayst see.

"Yea, Sir, but Brocke is gentle and mild, And softly she will fare: Thy horse is unrulye and wild, I wiss; Aye skipping here and theare."

What boote wilt thou have? our king reply'd; Now tell me in this stound. "Noe pence, nor halfpence, by my faye, But a noble in gold so round.

"Here's twentye groates of white moneye, Sith thou will have it of mee." I would have sworne now, quoth the tanner, Thou hadst not had one pennie.

But since we two have made a change, A change we must abide, Although thou hast gotten Brocke my mare, Thou gettest not my cowe-hide.

I will not have it, sayd the kynge, I sweare, so mought I thee; Thy foule cowe-hide I wolde not beare, If thou woldst give it to mee.

The tanner hee tooke his good cowe-hide, That of the cow was bilt; And threwe it upon the king's sadelle, That was soe fayrelye gilte. "Now help me up, thou fine fellowe, 'Tis time that I were gone: When I come home to Gyllian my wife, Sheel say I am a gentilmon."

The king he tooke him up by the legge; The tanner a f----- lett fall. Nowe marrye, good fellowe, sayd the king, Thy courtesye is but small.

When the tanner he was in the kinges sadèlle, And his foote in the stirrup was; He marvelled greatlye in his minde, Whether it were golde or brass.

But when the steede saw the cows taile wagge, And eke the blacke cowe-horne; He stamped, and stared, and awaye he ranne, As the devill had him borne.

The tanner he pulld, the tanner he sweat, And held by the pummil fast: At length the tanner came tumbling downe; His necke he had well-nye brast.

Take thy horse again with a vengeance, he sayd, With mee he shall not byde. "My horse wolde have borne thee well enoughe, But he knewe not of thy cowe-hide.

Yet if againe thou faine woldst change, As change full well may wee, By the faith of my bodye, thou jolly tannèr, I will have some boote of thee."

What boote wilt thou have? the tanner replyd, Nowe tell me in this stounde. "Noe pence nor halfpence, Sir, by my faye, But I will have twentye pound."

"Here's twentye groates out of my purse; And twentye I have of thine: And I have one more, which we will spend Together at the wine."

The king set a bugle home to his mouthe, And blewe both loude and shrille: And soone came lords, and soone came knights, Fast ryding over the hille.

Nowe, out alas! the tanner he cryde, That ever I sawe this daye! Thou art a strong thiefe, yon come thy fellowes Will beare my cowe-hide away.

They are no thieves, the king replyde, I sweare, soe mote I thee: But they are the lords of the north countrèy, Here come to hunt with mee.

And soone before our king they came, And knelt downe on the grounde: Then might the tanner have beene awaye, He had lever than twentye pounde.

A coller, a coller, here: sayd the king, A coller he loud gan crye: Then woulde he lever than twentye pound, He had not beene so nighe.

A coller, a coller, the tanner he sayd, I trowe it will breed sorrowe: After a coller cometh a halter, I trow I shall be hang'd to-morrowe.

Be not afraid, tanner, said our king; I tell thee, so mought I thee, Lo here I make thee the best esquire That is in the North countrie.