Complete Works of William Morris, page 315
Verily a piteous sight;
Take her up without a word!
Giles and Miles and Gervaise there,
Ladies’ Gard must meet the war;
Whatsoever knights these are,
Man the walls withouten fear!
Axes to the apple-trees,
Axes to the aspens tall!
Barriers without the wall
May be lightly made of these.
O poor shivering Isabeau;
Poor Ellayne le Violet,
Bent with fear! we miss to-day
Brave Jehane du Castel beau.
O poor Mary, weeping so!
Wretched Constance fille de fay!
Verily we miss to-day
Fair Jehane du Castel beau.
The apples now grow green and sour
Upon the mouldering castle-wall,
Before they ripen there they fall:
There are no banners on the tower,
The draggled swans most eagerly eat
The green weeds trailing in the moat;
Inside the rotting leaky boat
You see a slain man’s stiffen’d feet.
THE HAYSTACK IN THE FLOODS
Had she come all the way for this,
To part at last without a kiss?
Yea, had she borne the dirt and rain
That her own eyes might see him slain
Beside the haystack in the floods?
Along the dripping leafless woods,
The stirrup touching either shoe,
She rode astride as troopers do;
With kirtle kilted to her knee,
To which the mud splash’d wretchedly;
And the wet dripp’d from every tree
Upon her head and heavy hair,
And on her eyelids broad and fair;
The tears and rain ran down her face.
By fits and starts they rode apace,
And very often was his place
Far off from her; he had to ride
Ahead, to see what might betide
When the roads cross’d; and sometimes, when
There rose a murmuring from his men,
Had to turn back with promises.
Ah me! she had but little ease;
And often for pure doubt and dread
She sobb’d, made giddy in the head
By the swift riding; while, for cold,
Her slender fingers scarce could hold
The wet reins; yea, and scarcely, too,
She felt the foot within her shoe
Against the stirrup: all for this,
To part at last without a kiss
Beside the haystack in the floods.
For when they near’d that old soak’d hay,
They saw across the only way
That Judas, Godmar, and the three
Red running lions dismally
Grinn’d from his pennon, under which
In one straight line along the ditch,
They counted thirty heads.
So then,
While Robert turn’d round to his men,
She saw at once the wretched end,
And, stooping down, tried hard to rend
Her coif the wrong way from her head,
And hid her eyes; while Robert said:
Nay, love, ’tis scarcely two to one,
At Poictiers where we made them run
So fast: why, sweet my love, good cheer,
The Gascon frontier is so near,
Nought after this.
But: O! she said,
My God! my God! I have to tread
The long way back without you; then
The court at Paris; those six men;
The gratings of the Chatelet;
The swift Seine on some rainy day
Like this, and people standing by,
And laughing, while my weak hands try
To recollect how strong men swim.
All this, or else a life with him,
For which I should be damned at last,
Would God that this next hour were past!
He answer’d not, but cried his cry,
St. George for Marny! cheerily;
And laid his hand upon her rein.
Alas! no man of all his train
Gave back that cheery cry again;
And, while for rage his thumb beat fast
Upon his sword-hilt, some one cast
About his neck a kerchief long,
And bound him.
Then they went along
To Godmar; who said: Now, Jehane,
Your lover’s life is on the wane
So fast, that, if this very hour
You yield not as my paramour,
He will not see the rain leave off:
Nay, keep your tongue from gibe and scoff
Sir Robert, or I slay you now.
She laid her hand upon her brow,
Then gazed upon the palm, as though
She thought her forehead bled, and: No!
She said, and turn’d her head away,
As there were nothing else to say,
And everything were settled: red
Grew Godmar’s face from chin to head:
Jehane, on yonder hill there stands
My castle, guarding well my lands;
What hinders me from taking you,
And doing that I list to do
To your fair wilful body, while
Your knight lies dead?
A wicked smile
Wrinkled her face, her lips grew thin,
A long way out she thrust her chin:
You know that I should strangle you
While you were sleeping; or bite through
Your throat, by God’s help: ah! she said,
Lord Jesus, pity your poor maid!
For in such wise they hem me in,
I cannot choose but sin and sin,
Whatever happens: yet I think
They could not make me eat or drink,
And so should I just reach my rest.
Nay, if you do not my behest,
O Jehane! though I love you well,
Said Godmar, would I fail to tell
All that I know? Foul lies, she said.
Eh? lies, my Jehane? by God’s head,
At Paris folks would deem them true!
Do you know, Jehane, they cry for you:
Jehane the brown! Jehane the brown!
Give us Jehane to burn or drown!
Eh! gag me Robert! Sweet my friend,
This were indeed a piteous end
For those long fingers, and long feet,
And long neck, and smooth shoulders sweet;
An end that few men would forget
That saw it. So, an hour yet:
Consider, Jehane, which to take
Of life or death!
So, scarce awake,
Dismounting, did she leave that place,
And totter some yards: with her face
Turn’d upward to the sky she lay,
Her head on a wet heap of hay,
And fell asleep: and while she slept,
And did not dream, the minutes crept
Round to the twelve again; but she,
Being waked at last, sigh’d quietly,
And strangely childlike came, and said:
I will not. Straightway Godmar’s head,
As though it hung on strong wires, turn’d
Most sharply round, and his face burn’d.
For Robert, both his eyes were dry,
He could not weep, but gloomily
He seem’d to watch the rain; yea, too,
His lips were firm; he tried once more
To touch her lips; she reached out, sore
And vain desire so tortured them,
The poor grey lips, and now the hem
Of his sleeve brush’d them.
With a start
Up Godmar rose, thrust them apart;
From Robert’s throat he loosed the bands
Of silk and mail; with empty hands
Held out, she stood and gazed, and saw,
The long bright blade without a flaw
Glide out from Godmar’s sheath, his hand
In Robert’s hair; she saw him bend
Back Robert’s head; she saw him send
The thin steel down; the blow told well,
Right backward the knight Robert fell,
And moaned as dogs do, being half dead,
Unwitting, as I deem: so then
Godmar turn’d grinning to his men,
Who ran, some five or six, and beat
His head to pieces at their feet.
Then Godmar turn’d again and said:
So, Jehane, the first fitte is read!
Take note, my lady, that your way
Lies backward to the Chatelet!
She shook her head and gazed awhile
At her cold hands with a rueful smile,
As though this thing had made her mad.
This was the parting that they had
Beside the haystack in the floods.
TWO RED ROSES ACROSS THE MOON
There was a lady lived in a hall,
Large of her eyes, and slim and tall;
And ever she sung from noon to noon,
Two red roses across the moon.
There was a knight came riding by
In early spring, when the roads were dry;
And he heard that lady sing at the noon,
Two red roses across the moon.
Yet none the more he stopp’d at all,
But he rode a-gallop past the hall;
And left that lady singing at noon,
Two red roses across the moon.
Because, forsooth, the battle was set,
And the scarlet and blue had got to be met,
He rode on the spur till the next warm noon:
Two red roses across the moon.
But the battle was scatter’d from hill to hill,
From the windmill to the watermill;
And he said to himself, as it near’d the noon,
Two red roses across the moon.
You scarce could see for the scarlet and blue,
A golden helm or a golden shoe:
So he cried, as the fight grew thick at the noon,
Two red roses across the moon!
Verily then the gold bore through
The huddled spears of the scarlet and blue;
And they cried, as they cut them down at the noon,
Two red roses across the moon!
I trow he stopp’d when he rode again
By the hall, though draggled sore with the rain;
And his lips were pinch’d to kiss at the noon
Two red roses across the moon.
Under the may she stoop’d to the crown,
All was gold, there was nothing of brown;
And the horns blew up in the hall at noon,
Two red roses across the moon.
WELLAND RIVER
Fair Ellayne she walk’d by Welland river,
Across the lily lee:
O, gentle Sir Robert, ye are not kind
To stay so long at sea.
Over the marshland none can see
Your scarlet pennon fair;
O, leave the Easterlings alone,
Because of my golden hair.
The day when over Stamford bridge
That dear pennon I see
Go up toward the goodly street,
‘Twill be a fair day for me.
O, let the bonny pennon bide
At Stamford, the good town,
And let the Easterlings go free,
And their ships go up and down.
For every day that passes by
I wax both pale and green,
From gold to gold of my girdle
There is an inch between.
I sew’d it up with scarlet silk
Last night upon my knee,
And my heart grew sad and sore to think
Thy face I’d never see.
I sew’d it up with scarlet silk,
As I lay upon my bed:
Sorrow! the man I’ll never see
That had my maidenhead.
But as Ellayne sat on her window-seat
And comb’d her yellow hair,
She saw come over Stamford bridge
The scarlet pennon fair.
As Ellayne lay and sicken’d sore,
The gold shoes on her feet,
She saw Sir Robert and his men
Ride up the Stamford street.
He had a coat of fine red gold,
And a bascinet of steel;
Take note his goodly Collayne sword
Smote the spur upon his heel.
And by his side, on a grey jennet,
There rode a fair lady,
For every ruby Ellayne wore,
I count she carried three.
Say, was not Ellayne’s gold hair fine,
That fell to her middle free?
But that lady’s hair down in the street,
Fell lower than her knee.
Fair Ellayne’s face, from sorrow and grief,
Was waxen pale and green:
That lady’s face was goodly red,
She had but little tene.
But as he pass’d by her window
He grew a little wroth:
O, why does yon pale face look at me
From out the golden cloth?
It is some burd, the fair dame said,
That aye rode him beside,
Has come to see your bonny face
This merry summer-tide.
But Ellayne let a lily-flower
Light on his cap of steel:
O, I have gotten two hounds, fair knight,
The one has served me well;
But the other, just an hour agone,
Has come from over sea,
And all his fell is sleek and fine,
But little he knows of me.
Now, which shall I let go, fair knight,
And which shall bide with me?
O, lady, have no doubt to keep
The one that best loveth thee.
O, Robert, see how sick I am!
Ye do not so by me.
Lie still, fair love, have ye gotten harm
While I was on the sea?
Of one gift, Robert, that ye gave,
I sicken to the death,
I pray you nurse-tend me, my knight,
Whiles that I have my breath.
Six fathoms from the Stamford bridge
He left that dame to stand,
And whiles she wept, and whiles she cursed
That she ever had taken land.
He has kiss’d sweet Ellayne on the mouth,
And fair she fell asleep,
And long and long days after that
Sir Robert’s house she did keep.
RIDING TOGETHER
For many, many days together
The wind blew steady from the East;
For many days hot grew the weather,
About the time of our Lady’s Feast.
For many days we rode together,
Yet met we neither friend nor foe;
Hotter and clearer grew the weather,
Steadily did the East wind blow.
We saw the trees in the hot, bright weather,
Clear-cut, with shadows very black,
As freely we rode on together
With helms unlaced and bridles slack.
And often as we rode together,
We, looking down the green-bank’d stream,
Saw flowers in the sunny weather,
And saw the bubble-making bream.
And in the night lay down together,
And hung above our heads the rood,
Or watch’d night-long in the dewy weather,
The while the moon did watch the wood.
Our spears stood bright and thick together,
Straight out the banners stream’d behind,
As we gallop’d on in the sunny weather,
With faces turn’d towards the wind.
Down sank our threescore spears together,
As thick we saw the pagans ride;
His eager face in the clear fresh weather,
Shone out that last time by my side.
Up the sweep of the bridge we dash’d together,
It rock’d to the crash of the meeting spears,
Down rain’d the buds of the dear spring weather,
The elm-tree flowers fell like tears.
There, as we roll’d and writhed together,
I threw my arms above my head,
For close by my side, in the lovely weather,
I saw him reel and fall back dead.
I and the slayer met together,
He waited the death-stroke there in his place,
With thoughts of death, in the lovely weather,
Gapingly mazed at my madden’d face.
Madly I fought as we fought together;
In vain: the little Christian band
The pagans drown’d, as in stormy weather,
The river drowns low-lying land.
They bound my blood-stain’d hands together,
They bound his corpse to nod by my side:
Then on we rode, in the bright March weather,
With clash of cymbals did we ride.
We ride no more, no more together;
My prison-bars are thick and strong,
I take no heed of any weather,
The sweet Saints grant I live not long.
FATHER JOHN’S WAR-SONG
THE REAPERS.
So many reapers, Father John,
So many reapers and no little son,
To meet you when the day is done,
With little stiff legs to waddle and run?
Pray you beg, borrow, or steal one son.
Hurrah for the corn-sheaves of Father John!
FATHER JOHN.
