Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets Part 117

91 'You leave your good and lawful king When in adversity; Like me unto the true cause stick, And for the true cause die.'

92 Then he with priests, upon his knees, A prayer to G.o.d did make, Beseeching him unto himself His parting soul to take.

93 Then, kneeling down, he laid his head Most seemly on the block; Which from his body fair at once The able headsman stroke:

94 And out the blood began to flow, And round the scaffold twine; And tears, enough to wash't away, Did flow from each man's eyne.

95 The b.l.o.o.d.y axe his body fair Into four quarters cut; And every part, likewise his head, Upon a pole was put.

96 One part did rot on Kinwulph-hill, One on the minster-tower, And one from off the castle-gate The crowen did devour:

97 The other on Saint Paul's good gate, A dreary spectacle; His head was placed on the high cross, In high street most n.o.bile.

98 Thus was the end of Bawdin's fate;-- G.o.d prosper long our king, And grant he may, with Bawdin's soul, In heaven G.o.d's mercy sing!

MINSTREL'S SONG.

1 O! sing unto my roundelay, O! drop the briny tear with me; Dance no more at holy-day, Like a running river be: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

2 Black his cryne[1] as the winter night, White his rode[2] as the summer snow, Red his face as the morning light, Cold he lies in the grave below: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

3 Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note, Quick in dance as thought can be, Deft his tabour, cudgel stout; O! he lies by the willow-tree: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

4 Hark! the raven flaps his wing, In the briared dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing To the night-mares as they go: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

5 See! the white moon s.h.i.+nes on high; Whiter is my true love's shroud, Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

6 Here upon my true love's grave, Shall the barren flowers be laid, Not one holy saint to save All the celness of a maid: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

7 With my hands I'll dent[3] the briars Round his holy corse to gree;[4]

Ouphant[5] fairy, light your fires-- Here my body still shall be: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

8 Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, Drain my hearte's-blood away; Life and all its goods I scorn, Dance by night, or feast by day: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

9 Water-witches, crowned with reytes,[6]

Bear me to your lethal tide.

'I die! I come! my true love waits!'

Thus the damsel spake, and died.

[1] 'Cryne:' hair.

[2] 'Rode:' complexion.

[3] 'Dent:' fix.

[4] 'Gree:' grow.

[5] 'Ouphant:' elfish.

[6] 'Reytes:' water-flags.

THE STORY OF WILLIAM CANYNGE.

1 Anent a brooklet as I lay reclined, Listening to hear the water glide along, Minding how thorough the green meads it twined, Whilst the caves responsed its muttering song, At distant rising Avon to he sped, Amenged[1] with rising hills did show its head;

2 Engarlanded with crowns of osier-weeds And wraytes[2] of alders of a bercie scent, And sticking out with cloud-agested reeds, The h.o.a.ry Avon showed dire semblament, Whilst blatant Severn, from Sabrina cleped, Boars flemie o'er the sandes that she heaped.

3 These eyne-gears swithin[3] bringeth to my thought Of hardy champions knowen to the flood, How on the banks thereof brave Aelle fought, Aelle descended from Merce kingly blood, Warder of Bristol town and castle stede, Who ever and anon made Danes to bleed.

4 Methought such doughty men must have a sprite Dight in the armour brace that Michael bore, When he with Satan, king of h.e.l.l, did fight, And earth was drenched in a sea of gore; Or, soon as they did see the worlde's light, Fate had wrote down, 'This man is born to fight.'

5 Aelle, I said, or else my mind did say, Why is thy actions left so spare in story?

Were I to dispone, there should liven aye, In earth and heaven's rolls thy tale of glory; Thy acts so doughty should for aye abide, And by their test all after acts be tried.

6 Next holy Wareburghus filled my mind, As fair a saint as any town can boast, Or be the earth with light or mirk ywrynde,[4]

I see his image walking through the coast: Fitz-Hardynge, Bithrickus, and twenty moe, In vision 'fore my fantasy did go.

7 Thus all my wandering faitour[5] thinking strayed, And each digne[6] builder dequaced on my mind, When from the distant stream arose a maid, Whose gentle tresses moved not to the wind; Like to the silver moon in frosty night, The damoiselle did come so blithe and sweet.

8 No broidered mantle of a scarlet hue, No shoe-pikes plaited o'er with riband gear, No costly robes of woaden blue, Nought of a dress, but beauty did she wear; Naked she was, and looked sweet of youth, All did bewrayen that her name was Truth.

9 The easy ringlets of her nut-brown hair What ne a man should see did sweetly hide, Which on her milk-white bodykin so fair Did show like brown streams fouling the white tide, Or veins of brown hue in a marble cuarr,[7]

Which by the traveller is kenned from far.

10 Astounded mickle there I silent lay, Still scauncing wondrous at the walking sight; My senses forgard,[8] nor could run away, But was not forstraught[9] when she did alight Anigh to me, dressed up in naked view, Which might in some lascivious thoughts abrew.

11 But I did not once think of wanton thought; For well I minded what by vow I hete, And in my pocket had a crochee[10] brought; Which in the blossom would such sins anete; I looked with eyes as pure as angels do, And did the every thought of foul eschew.

12 With sweet semblate, and an angel's grace, She 'gan to lecture from her gentle breast; For Truth's own wordes is her minde's face, False oratories she did aye detest: Sweetness was in each word she did ywreene, Though she strove not to make that sweetness seen.

13 She said, 'My manner of appearing here My name and slighted myndruch may thee tell; I'm Truth, that did descend from heaven-were, Goulers and courtiers do not know me well; Thy inmost thoughts, thy labouring brain I saw, And from thy gentle dream will thee adawe.[11]

14 Full many champions, and men of lore, Painters and carvellers[12] have gained good name, But there's a Canynge to increase the store, A Canynge who shall buy up all their fame.

Take thou my power, and see in child and man What true n.o.bility in Canynge ran.'

15 As when a bordelier[13] on easy bed, Tired with the labours maynt[14] of sultry day, In sleepe's bosom lays his weary head, So, senses sunk to rest, my body lay; Eftsoons my sprite, from earthly bands untied, Emerged in flanched air with Truth aside.

16 Straight was I carried back to times of yore, Whilst Canynge swathed yet in fleshly bed, And saw all actions which had been before, And all the scroll of fate unravelled; And when the fate-marked babe had come to sight, I saw him eager gasping after light.

17 In all his shepen gambols and child's play, In every merry-making, fair, or wake, I knew a purple light of wisdom's ray; He eat down learning with a wastle cake.

As wise as any of the aldermen, He'd wit enough to make a mayor at ten.

18 As the dulce[15] downy barbe began to gre, So was the well thighte texture of his lore Each day enheedynge mockler[16] for to be, Great in his counsel for the days he bore.

All tongues, all carols did unto him sing, Wond'ring at one so wise, and yet so ying.[17]

19 Increasing in the years of mortal life, And hasting to his journey unto heaven, He thought it proper for to choose a wife, And use the s.e.xes for the purpose given.

He then was youth of comely semelikede, And he had made a maiden's heart to bleed.

20 He had a father (Jesus rest his soul!) Who loved money, as his cherished joy; He had a brother (happy man be's dole!) In mind and body his own father's boy: What then could Canynge wishen as a part To give to her who had made exchange of heart?

21 But lands and castle tenures, gold and bighes,[18]