Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland Volume XXIV Part 5

Upon his burnished s.h.i.+eld he bore A head of bull caboshed (For so they speak in herald lore), And for his crest he aptly wore Two bones of marrow crossed.

[Footnote A: A knight called Bullstrode, as having got his name in the way set forth, is mentioned by Guillim; but whether he is the same as he who figures in the Scotch legend I do not know.]

For he had slain in tournay set Full many a blazoned fool; Nor would he deem his praise complete Till he had slain a bull.

He threw the gauntlet at the brute, Which was received with scorn, For Taurus straight the gauntlet took, Then in the air the bauble shook, And tossed it on his horn.

To fight they went with might and main, And fought a good long hour; The knight's long lance was broke in twain-- Sir Bull had now the power; The ladies laughed, the barons too, As they Sir Bull admired!

But where fair ladies are to view, Who may declare what knight may do, By n.o.ble emprise fired?

The knight he paused amid the claque, And threw a look of scorn: Sir Bull has Bullstrode on his back, Who held by either horn; And round the ring, and round the ring, Rushed bull in wild affray, Stamping, roaring, bellowing,-- And, stumbling, gave his neck a wring, And Bullstrode won the day.

This valiant knight, by love inspired, Next sued fair Katharine, The daughter of Sir Ravensbeard, A man of ancient line; And he had known the reason good Sir Bullstrode got his name, And wished--if Kate could be subdued-- To mix his blue and blazoned blood With one of such a fame.

II.

But when the knights are thus employeed, The lady is in yon glen, There seated by the river side With one, the flower of men-- George Allan--a rich yeoman's heir, Who leased her father's land.

Yet, though beloved by all the fair, Young Allan might not surely dare To claim this envied hand.

Yet hearts will work, and hearts will steal What high commands deny; And beauty is a thing to feel, Self-chosen by the eye: Nor would fair Katharine had gi'en A touch of Allan's hand For all the honours she could gain From duke or earl, lord or thane, Or knight in all the land.

She knew the price she had to pay For this her secret love; But where's a will there is a way, And Kate she would it prove.

The will we know, the way's obscure, Deep in her soul confined; What quick invention might secure, With love for the inspiring power, Was in that maiden's mind.

"Now, Allan," she said, with a silent laugh, In eyes both quaint and keen, "Thou must not fear, for here I swear By Coz. Saint Catharine, 'Twas easier for this doughty knight To hold these horns he dared, Than take for wife by a father's right, Against the spurn of a maiden's spite, The daughter of Ravensbeard."

"No, no, fair lady," George Allan said-- With tears his eyes were full-- "'Tis easier to force the will of a maid, Than hold by the horns a bull."

"Yes! yes! of the maids who say a prayer, Like sisters of orders grey; But Kate admits no craven fear, And she can do what they cannot dare, For she's quicker of parts than they."

III.

It's up in yon chamber well bedight Of the castle of Invercloyd, A maiden sits with a grim sir knight Seated on either side.

"I come to thee by a father's right, To issue my last command, That thou concede to this gallant knight, What his n.o.ble nature will requite, The guerdon of thy hand."

"And here, upon my bended knee,"

Sir Bullstrode blandly said, "I pray thee, in knightly courtesie, The grace thy sire hath pled."

"Oh yes! a guerdon let it remain, I give thee free consent; But I have a mind, and will maintain, This knight shall only my favour gain In knightly tournament."

"What meaneth the wench?" the father cried, With a fire-flaught in his eye, "What other knight would'st thou invite Sir Bullstrode to defy?

Is he a lover? I grant no parle, For I am resolved to know, And wish, by my sword, no better a quarrel; And be he a ceorl, or be he an earl, He goes to shades below."

"No lover is he, my father dear, My champion who shall be; A stranger knight shall for me fight, And shall my fate decree."

"Well done! well done!" cried Sir Bullstrode, "That goeth with my gree; May the carrion crow be then abroad, All hungry to feed upon carrion food, That day he fights with me."

"But let this contract," said the maid, "Be written on parchment skin, And signed, and sealed, and witnessed, That surety I may find."

Again the father knit his brow, Yet could not he complain, Because Sir Bullstrode wished it so, That all the world might come to know His honour he could maintain.

IV.

It's up in yon chamber tapestried, Sits the Lady Katharine; She smiled at a woman's art applied Her own true love to win.

And lo! who comes in a tearful way, But her pretty tire-woman, "Hey! hey! what now? good lack-a-day!

Such cheeks so pale, and lips like clay; What ails maid Lilian?"

"Oh it is, it is, young mistress mine, All about this valiant knight, Who came to me all drunk with wine, At the dead hour of the night.

He seized me struggling to get free, And swore by the goat of Jove, He would me fee, if I would be, La! my lady! I fear to tell it to thee, _His left-hand lady-love_."

"Ho! ho! my maid, a pretty scene!

A brute of n.o.ble parts!

But 'tis easier to turn a bull by each horn, Than rule two women's hearts.

No harems have we in western land, Where a woman's soul is free, To rule weak man by her high command, And rouse by a wave of her wizard wand The fire of his chivalrie."

V.

Lo! round the lists, and round the lists, Bedecked with pennons gay, Environed there with ladies fair, Sir Bullstrode held his way.

High mounted on a gallant steed, And armed a-cap-a-pie, His lance well graced by a pennon red, A white plume nodded o'er his head, With ribbons at his knee.

"Why mounts not Kate the dais seat?"

The father loudly cried.

"She hath not finished her robing yet,"

A lady quick replied.

And now a shout rang all about, Ho! ho! there comes apace, A Cataphract[A] of n.o.ble mien, With armour bright as silver sheen, And eke of gentle grace.

[Footnote A: A knight completely equipped; a word in common use in the times of chivalry.]

He bore for his escochion Dan Cupid with his dart, And for his crest there was impressed A well-skewered bleeding heart; His yellow streamer on his spear, Flew fluttering in the wind, And thrice he waved it in the air, As if to fan the ladies there, And thrice his head inclined.

"Who's he, who's he?" cried Ravensbeard; But no one there could say.

"Knowest thou him?" cried some who heard; But each one answered Nay.

"I am Sir Peveril," said the knight, "If you my name would learn, And I will for fair Katharine fight, A lady's love, and a lady's right, And a lady's choice to earn."

The gauntlet thrown upon the ground, Sir Bullstrode laughed with joy: "Short work," said he, "I'll make of thee-- Methinks a beardless boy."

Nor sooner said than in he sprang And aimed a mortal blow, The crenel upon the buckler rang, And having achieved an echoing clang, It made no more ado.

The stranger knight wheeled quick as light, And charging with grat.i.tude, Gave him good thank on his left flank, And lo! a stream of blood!

Shall he this knight, so dread in fight, Cede to this beardless foe, And feel in his pain, returned again, That vaunt of his so empty and vain, That vaunt of the carrion crow?

Stung by the wound, not less by shame, He gathered all his force, And sprang again, with desperate aim, His enemy to unhorse; But he who watched the pointed lance A dexterous movement made, And saw his foe, as he missed the blow, Rock in his selle both to and fro, And vault o'er his horse's head.

Sore fainting from the loss of blood, He lay upon the ground, Nor e'er a leech within his reach Can stop that fatal wound.

And there with many an honour full, That brave and doughty knight, Sir Bullstrode, who once strode the bull, And killed (himself one) many a fool, Has closed his eyes in night.

VI.

And now within the ballion court There sits Sir Ravensbeard: "Who shall me say what popinjay Hath earned this proud reward?"

And there stands Katharine all confessed In maiden dignity; "'Twas I, in 'fence of life sore pressed, 'Twas I, at honour's high behest, This bad man made to die.