Popular British Ballads, Ancient and Modern, Vol. 3 (of 4)
Part 8
'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;
At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;
At Duffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be;
And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,
So, Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!"
At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,
And against him the cattle stood black every one,
To stare thro' the mist at us galloping past,
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,
With resolute shoulders, each butting away
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray:
And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;
And one eye's black intelligence,--ever that glance
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance!
And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.
By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris,
"Stay spur!
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her.
Well remember at Aix"--for one heard the quick wheeze
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees,
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.
So, we were left galloping, Joris and I,
Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,
'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;
Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,
And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix- is in sight!"
"How they'll greet us!"--and all in a moment his roan
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.
Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,
Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse with out peer;
Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.
And all I remember is--friends flocking round
As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground;
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)
Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.
----R. Browning.
COUNT GISMOND
(_Aix in Provence._)
I.
|Christ God, who savest man, save most
Of men Count Gismond who saved me!
Count Gauthier, when he chose his post,
Chose time and place and company
To suit it; when he struck at length
My honour,'twas with all his strength.
II.
And doubtlessly, ere he could draw
All points to one, he must have schemed!
That miserable morning saw
Few half so happy as I seemed,
While being dressed in queen's array
To give our tourney prize away.
III.
I thought they loved me, did me grace
To please themselves; 'twas all their deed;
God makes, or fair or foul, our face;
If showing mine so caused to bleed
My cousins' hearts, they should have dropped
A word, and straight the play had stopped.
They, too, so beauteous! Each a queen
By virtue of her brow and breast;
Not needing to be crowned, I mean,
As I do. E'en when I was dressed,
Had either of them spoke, instead
Of glancing sideways with still head!
V.
But no: they let me laugh, and sing
My birthday song quite through, adjust
The last rose in my garland, fling
A last look on the mirror, trust
My arms to each an arm of theirs,
And so descend the castle-stairs--
VI.
And come out on the morning-troop
Of merry friends who kissed my cheek,
And called me queen, and made me stoop
Under the canopy--(a streak
That pierced it, of the outside sun,
Powdered with gold its gloom's soft dun)--
VII.
And they could let me take my state
And foolish throne amid applause
Of all come there to celebrate
My queen s-day--Oh I think the cause
Of much was, they forgot no crowd
Makes up for parents in their shroud!
VIII.
However that be, all eyes were bent
Upon me, when my cousins cast
Theirs down; 'twas time I should present
The victor's crown, but... there,'twill last
No long time... the old mist again
Blinds me as then it did. How vain!
IX.
See! Gismond's at the gate, in talk
With his two boys: I can proceed.
Well, at that moment, who should stalk
Forth boldly--to my face, indeed--
But Gauthier? and he thundered "Stay!"
And all stayed. "Bring no crowns, I say!
X.
"Bring torches! Wind the penance-sheet
About her! Let her shun the chaste,
Or lay herself before their feet!
Shall she, whose body I embraced
A night long, queen it in the day?
For honour's sake no crowns, I say!"
XI.
I? What I answered? As I live,
I never fancied such a thing
As answer possible to give.
What says the body when they spring
Some monstrous torture-engine's whole
Strength on it? No more says the soul.
XII.
Till out strode Gismond; then I knew
That I was saved. I never met
His face before, but, at first view,
I felt quite sure that God had set
Himself to Satan; who would spend
A minute's mistrust on the end?
XIII.
He strode to Gauthier, in his throat
Gave him the lie, then struck his mouth
With one back-handed blow that wrote
In blood men's verdict there. North, South,
East, West, I looked. The lie was dead,
And damned, and truth stood up instead.
XIV.
This glads me most, that I enjoyed
The heart of the joy, with my content
In watching Gismond unalloyed
By any doubt of the event:
God took that on him--I was bid
Watch Gismond for my part: I did.
XV.
Did I not watch him while he let
His armourer just brace his greaves,
Rivet his hauberk, on the fret
The while! His foot... my memory leaves
No least stamp out, nor how anon
He pulled his ringing gauntlets on.
XVI.
And e'en before the trumpet's sound
Was finished, prone lay the false knight,
Prone as his lie, upon the ground:
Gismond flew at him, used no sleight
O' the sword, but open-breasted drove,
Cleaving till out the truth he clove.
XVII.
Which done, he dragged him to my feet
And said, "Here die, but end thy breath
In full confession, lest thou fleet
From my first, to God's second death!
Say, hast thou lied?" And, "I have lied
To God and her," he said, and died.
XVIII.
Then Gismond, kneeling to me, asked
--What safe my heart holds, though no word
Could I repeat now, if I tasked
My powers for ever, to a third
Dear even as you are. Pass the rest
Until I sank upon his breast.
XIX.
Over my head his arm he flung
Against the world; and scarce I felt
His sword (that dripped by me and swung)
A little shifted in its belt:
For he began to say the while
How South our home lay many a mile.
XX.
So,'mid the shouting multitude
We two walked forth to never more
Return. My cousins have pursued
Their life, untroubled as before
I vexed them. Gauthier's dwelling-place
God lighten! May his soul find grace.
XXI.
Our elder boy has got the clear
Great brow; tho' when his brother's black
Full eye shows scorn, it... Gismond here?
And have you brought my tercel back?
I just was telling Adela
How many birds it struck since May.
----R. Browning.
A LOWLAND WITCH BALLAD
|The old witch-wife beside her door
Sat spinning with a watchful ear,
A horse's hoof upon the road
Is what she waits for, longs to hear.
The mottled gloaming dusky grew,
Or else we might a furrow trace,
Sowed with small bones and leaves of yew,
Across the road from place to place.
Hark he comes! The young bridegroom,
Singing gaily down the hill,
Rides on, rides blindly to his doom,
His heart that witch hath sworn to kill.
Up to the fosse he rode so free,
There his steed stumbled and he fell,
He cannot pass, nor turn, nor flee;
His song is done, hes in the spell.
She dances round him where he stands,
Her distaff touches both his feet,
She blows upon his eyes and hands,
He has no power his fate to cheat.
"Ye cannot visit her to-night,
Nor ever again," the witch-wife cried;
"But thou shalt do as I think right,
And do it swift without a guide.
"Upon the top of Tintock Hill
This night there rests the yearly mist,
In silence go, your tongue keep still,
And find for me the dead mans kist.
"Within the kist there is a cup,
Thou'lt find it by the dead man's shine,
Take it thus! thus fold it up,--
It holds for me the wisdom-wine.
"Go to the top of Tintock hill,
Grope within that eerie mist,
Whatever happens, keep quite still
Until ye find the dead man's kist.
"The kist will open, take the cup,
Heed ye not the dead man's shine,
Take it thus, thus fold it up,
Bring it to me and I am thine."
He went, he could make answer none,
He went, he found all as she said,
Before the dawn had well begun
She had the cup from that strange bed.
Into the hut she fled at once,
She drank the wine;--forthwith behold!
A radiant damozel advance
From that black door in silken fold.
The little Circe flower she held
Towards the boy with such a smile
Made his heart leap, he was compelled
To take it gently as a child.
She turned, he followed, passed the door,
Which closed behind: at noon next day,
Ambling on his mule that way,
The Abbot found the steed, no more,
The rest was lost in glamoury.
----William Bell Scott.
THE WEIRD LADY
|The swevens came up round Harold the Earl,
Like motes in the sunnès beam;
And over him stood the Weird Lady,
In her charmed castle over the sea,
Sang ".Lie thou still and dream."
"Thy steed is dead in his stall, Earl Harold,
Since thou hast been with me;
The rust has eaten thy harness bright,
And the rats have eaten thy greyhound light,
That was so fair and free."
Mary Mother she stooped from heaven;
She wakened Earl Harold out of his sweven,
To don his harness on;
And over the land and over the sea
He wended abroad to his own countrie,
A weary way to gon.
Oh but his beard was white with eld,
Oh but his hair was gray;
He stumbled on by stock and stone,
And as he journeyed he made his moan
Along that weary way.
Earl Harold came to his castle wall;
The gate was burnt with fire;
Roof and rafter were fallen down,
The folk were strangers all in the town,
And strangers all in the shire.
Earl Harold came to a house of nuns,
And he heard the dead-bell toll;
He saw the sexton stand by a grave;
"Now Christ have mercy, who did us- save,
Upon yon fair nun's soul."
The nuns they came from the convent gate
By one, by two, by three;
They sang for the soul of a lady bright
Who died for the love of a traitor knight:
It was his own lady.
He stayed the corpse beside the grave;
"A sign, a sign!" quod he.
"Mary Mother who rulest heaven,
Send me a sign if I be forgiven
By the woman who so loved me."
F
A white dove out of the coffin flew;
Earl Harold's mouth it kist;
He fell on his face, wherever he stood;
And the white dove carried his soul to God
Or ever the bearers wist.
----C. Kingsley.
THE SANDS OF DEE
|O Mary, go and call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home
Across the sands of Dee;"
The western wind was wild and dank with foam,
And all alone went she.
The western tide crept up along the sand,
And o'er and o'er the sand,
And round and round the sand,
As far as eye could see.
The rolling mist came down and hid the land:
And never home came she.
"Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair--
A tress of golden hair,
A drowned maiden's hair
Above the nets at sea?
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair
Among the stakes on Dee."
They rowed her in across the rolling foam,
The cruel crawling foam,
The cruel hungry foam,
To her grave beside the sea:
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home
Across the sands of Dee.
----C. Kingsley.
BALLAD OF EARL HALDAN'S DAUGHTER
|It was Earl Haldan's daughter,
She looked across the sea;
She looked across the water;
And long and loud laughed she:
"The locks of six princesses
Must be my marriage fee,
So hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat!
Who comes a wooing me?"
It was Earl Haldan's daughter,
She walked along the sand;
When she was aware of a knight so fair,
Came sailing to the land.
His sails were all of velvet,
His mast of beaten gold,
And "Hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat!
Who saileth here so bold?"
"The locks of five princesses
I won beyond the sea;
I dipt their golden tresses,
To fringe a cloak for thee.
One handful yet is wanting,
But one of all the tale;
So hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat!
Furl up thy velvet sail!"
He leapt into the water,
That rover young and bold;
He gript Earl Haldan's daughter,
He dipt her locks of gold:
"Go weep, go weep, proud maiden,
The tale is full to-day.
Now hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat!
Sail Westward ho! away!"
----C. Kingsley.
LORRAINE, LORRAINE, LORRÈE
I.
|Are you ready for your steeple-chase, Lorraine,
Lorraine, Lorrèe?
Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum,
Barum, Baree,
You're booked to ride your capping race to-day at Coulterlee,
You're booked to ride Vindictive, for all the world to see,
To keep him straight, to keep him first, and win the run for me.
Barum, Barum," etc.
II.
She clasped her new-born baby, poor Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorrèe,
"I cannot ride Vindictive, as any man might see,
And I will not ride Vindictive, with this baby on my knee;
He's killed a boy, he's killed a man, and why must he kill me?"
III.
"Unless you ride Vindictive, Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorrèe,
Unless you ride Vindictive to-day at Coulterlee,
And land him safe across the brook, and win the blank for me,
It's you may keep your baby, for you'll get no keep from me."
IV.
"That husbands could be cruel," said Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorrèe,
"That husbands could be cruel, I have known for seasons three;
But oh! to ride Vindictive while a baby cries for me,
And be killed across a fence at last for all the world to see!"
V.
She mastered young Vindictive--Oh! the gallant lass was she,
And kept him straight and won the race as near as near could be;
But he killed her at the brook against a pollard willow-tree,
Oh! he killed her at the brook, the brute, for all the world to see,
And no one but the baby cried for poor Lorraine, Lorrèe.
----C. Kingsley.
A BALLAD FOR A BOY
|When George the Third was reigning a hundred
years ago,
He ordered Captain Farmer to chase the foreign
foe.
"You're not afraid of shot," said he, "you're
not afraid of wreck,
So cruise about the west of France in the frigate
called _Quebec_.
"Quebec was once a Frenchman's town, but
twenty years ago
King George the Second sent a man called
General Wolfe, you know,
To clamber up a precipice and look into Quebec,
As you'd look down a hatchway when standing
on the deck.
"If Wolfe could beat the Frenchmen then so
you can beat them now.
Before he got inside the town he died, I must
allow.
But since the town was won for us it is a lucky
name,
And you'll remember Wolfe's good work, and
you shall do the same."
Then Farmer said, "I'll try, sir," and Farmer
bowed so low
That George could see his pigtail tied in a velvet
bow.
George gave him his commission, and that it
might be safer,
Signed "King of Britain, King of France," and
sealed it with a wafer.
Then proud was Captain Farmer in a frigate of
his own,
And grander on his quarter-deck than George
upon the throne.
He'd two guns in his cabin, and on the spar-deck
ten,
And twenty on the gun-deck, and more than ten
score men.
And as a huntsman scours the brakes with six-
teen brace of dogs,
With two-and-thirty cannon the ship explored
the fogs.
From Cape la Hogue to Ushant, from Roche-
forte to Belleisle,
She hunted game till reef and mud were rubbing
on her keel.
The fogs are dried, the frigate's side is bright
with melting tar,
The lad up in the foretop sees square white sails
afar;
The east wind drives three square-sailed masts
from out the Breton bay,
And "Clear for action!" Farmer shouts, and
reefers yell "Hooray!"
The Frenchmen's captain had a name I wish I
could pronounce;
A Breton gentleman was he, and wholly free
from bounce,
One like those famous fellows who died by guil-
lotine
For honour and the fleurs-de-lys, and Antoinette
the Queen.
The Catholic for Louis, the Protestant for George,
Each captain drew as bright a sword as saintly
smiths could forge;
And both were simple seamen, but both could
understand
How each was bound to win or die for flag and
native land.
The French ship was la Surveillante, which means
the watchful maid;
She folded up her head-dress and began to
cannonade.
Her hull was clean, and ours was foul; we had
to spread more sail.
On canvas, stays, and topsail yards her bullets
came like hail.
Sore smitten were both captains, and many lads
beside,
And still to cut our rigging the foreign gunners
tried.
A sail-clad spar came flapping down athwart a
blazing gun;
We could not quench the rushing flames, and so
the Frenchman won.
Our quarter-deck was crowded, the waist was
all aglow;
Men hung upon the taffrail half scorched, but
loth to go;
Our captain sat where once he stood, and would
not quit his chair.
He bade his comrades leap for life, and leave
him bleeding there.
The guns were hushed on either side, the French-
men lowered boats,
They flung us planks and hencoops, and every-
thing that floats.
They risked their lives, good fellows! to bring
their rivals aid.
'Twas by the conflagration the peace was
strangely made.
_La Surveillante_ was like a sieve; the victors had
no rest.
They had to dodge the east wind to reach the
port of Brest,
And where the waves leapt lower, and the
riddled ship went slower,
In triumph, yet in funeral guise, came fisher-
boats to tow her.
They dealt with us as brethren, they mourned
for Farmer dead;
And as the wounded captives passed each Breton
bowed the head.
Then spoke the French Lieutenant, "'Twas fire
that won, not we.
You never struck your flag to us; you'll go to
England free."
'Twas the sixth day of October, seventeen
hundred seventy-nine,
A year when nations ventured against us to '
combine,
Quebec was burnt and Farmer slain, by us re-
membered not;
But thanks be to the French book wherein
they're not forgot.
Now you, if you've to fight the French, my
youngster, bear in mind
Those seamen of King Louis so chivalrous and kind;
Think of the Breton gentlemen who took our
lads to Brest,
And treat some rescued Breton as a comrade and
a guest.
----William Cory.
KEITH OF RAVELSTON
|The murmur of the mourning ghost
That keeps the shadowy kine;
'Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!'
Ravelston, Ravelston,
The merry path that leads
Down the golden morning hill
And through the silver meads;
Ravelston, Ravelston,
The stile beneath the tree,
The maid that kept her mother's kine,
The song that sang she!
She sang her song, she kept her kine,
She sat beneath the thorn,
When Andrew Keith of Ravelston
Rode thro' the Monday morn.
His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring,
His belted jewels shine!
Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!
Year after year, where Andrew came,
Comes evening down the glade,
And still there sits a moonshine ghost
Where sat the sunshine maid.
Her misty hair is faint and fair,
She keeps the shadowy kine;
Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!
I lay my hand upon the stile,
The stile is lone and cold;
The burnie that goes babbling by
Says nought that can be told.
Yet, stranger! here, from year to year,
She keeps her shadowy kine;
Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!
Step out three steps, where Andrew stood --
Why blanch thy cheeks for fear?
The ancient stile is not alone,
'Tis not the burn I hear!
She makes her immemorial moan,
She keeps her shadowy kine;
Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!
----S. Dobell.
DAFT JEAN
|She cam' by the cottage, she cam' by the ha,
The laird's ha o' Wutherstanelaw,
The cottar's cot by the birken shaw;
An' aye she gret,
To ilk ane she met,
For the trumpet had blawn an her lad was awa.
Daft Jean,
The waesome wean,
"Black, black," sang she,
"Black, black my weeds shall be,
My love has widowed me!
Black, black!" sang she.
Daft Jean,
The waesome wean,
She cam' by the cottage, she cam' by the ha',
The laird's ha o Wutherstanelaw,
The cottar's cot by the birken shaw;
Nae mair she creepit,
Nae mair she weepit,
She stept'mang the lasses the queen o' them a',
The queen o' them a',
The queen o' them a',
She stept mang the lasses the queen o' them a.
For the fight it was fought i' the fiel' far awa,
An' claymore in han' for his love an' his Ian',
The lad she lo ed best he was foremost to fa'.
"White, white," sang she,
"White, white, my weeds shall be,
I am no widow," sang she,
"White, white, my wedding shall be,
White, white!" sang she.
Daft Jean,
The waesome wean,
She gaed na' to cottage, she gaed na' to ha',
But forth she creepit,
While a' the house weepit,
Into the snaw i' the eerie night-fa.'
At morn we found her,
The lammies stood round her,
The snaw was her pillow, her sheet was the snaw;
Pale she was lying,
Singing and dying,
A' for the laddie wha fell far awa'.
"White, white," sang she,
"My love has married me,
White, white, my weeds shall be,
White, white, my wedding shall be,
White, white," sang she!
----S. Dobell.
THE YERL O' WATERYDECK
|The wind it blew, and the ship it flew,
And it was "Hey for hame!"
But up an' cried the skipper til his crew,
"Haud her oot ower the saut sea faem."
Syne up an' spak the angry king:
"Haud on for Dumferline!"
Quo the skipper, "My lord, this maunna be--
I'm king on this boat o' mine."
A
He tuik the helm intil his han';
He left the shore un er the lee;
Syne croodit sail, an', east an' south,
Stude awa richt oot to sea.
Quo the king, "Leise-majesty, I trow!
Here lies some ill-set plan.
'Bout ship!" Quo the skipper, "Yer grace
forgets
Ye are king but o' the lan'!"
Oot he heild to the open sea
Quhill the north wind flaughtered and fell;
Syne the east had a bitter word to say
That waukent a watery hell.
He turned her heid intil the north:
Quo the nobles: "He's droon, by the mass!"
Quo the skipper: "Haud aff yerlady-hans,
Or yell never see the Bass."
The king creepit down the cabin-stair
To drink the gude French wine;
An' up cam his dochter, the princess fair,
An' luikit ower the brine.
She turnt her face to the drivin' snaw,
To the snaw but and the weet;
It claucht her snood, an' awa' like a clud
Her hair drave oot i' the sleet.
She turnt her face frae the drivin' win --
"Quhat's that aheid?" quo' she,
The skipper he threw himsel' frae the win',
An' he brayt the helm alee.
"Put to yer han', my lady fair!
Haud up her heid," quo' he;
"Gin she dinna face the win' a wee mair,
It s faurweel to you an' me!"
To the tiller the lady she laid her han,
An' the ship brayt her cheek to the blast;
They joukit the berg, but her quarter scraped,
An' they luikit at ither aghast.
Quo the skipper: "Ye are a lady fair,
An' a princess gran' to see;
But war ye a beggàr, a man wud sail
To the hell i' yer company."
She liftit a pale an' a queenly face;
Her een flashed, an' syne they swam:
"An' what for no to the hevin?" she says--
An' she turnt awa' frae him.
Bot she tuik na her han' frae the gude ship's
helm
Till the day begouth to daw;
An' the skipper he spak, but what was said
It was said atween them twa.
An' syne the gude ship she lay to,
Wi' Scotian' hyne un'er the lee;
An' the king cam up the cabin-stair,
Wi' wan face an' bluidshot ee.
Laigh loutit the skipper upo' the deck;
"Stan' up, stan' up," quo' the king;
"Ye're an honest loun--an' beg me a boon