Chapter 6
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 wrongèd 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 lodgèd 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 likèd 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 preparèd 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 | +--------------------------------------------------------------------+
End of Project Gutenberg's The Book of Brave Old Ballads, by Unknown