"Tydinges! tydinges! Kyng Estmere!" "You had not ridden scant a myle, A myle out of the towne, But in did come the Kyng of Spayne, With kempés many a one. "But in did come the Kyng of Spayne, With many a bold baròne Tone day to marrye Kyng Adland's daughter, Tother day to carry her home. "And you shall be the best harper, "It shal be written in our forheads, That we twoe are the boldest men, And thus they renisht them to ryde, And when they came to Kyng Adland's halle, And when they came to Kyng Adland's halle, Untill the fayre hall yate, There they found a proud portér, Rearing himselfe thereatt. Sayes, "Christ thee save, thou proud portér," Sayes, "Christ thee save and see." "Now you be welcome," sayd the portér, "Of what land soever ye be." "We been harpers," sayd Adler yonge, "Come out of the north countrée; We been come hither untill this place, This proud wedding for to see." Sayd, "An your color were whyte and redd, I'd say Kyng Estmere and his brother, Then they pulled out a ryng of gold, "And ever we will thee proud portér, Sore he looked on Kyng Estmere, Then opened to them the fayre hall yates, Kyng Estmere he light off his steede, Up at the fayre hall board; The frothe that came from his bridle bitte, Light on Kyng Bremor's beard. Sayes, "Stable thy steede, thou proud harpér, It doth not become a proud harpér, "My ladde he is so lither," he sayd, "He will do nought that's meete, And aye that I could but find the man, Were able him to beate." “Thou speakest proud wordes," sayd the paynim king, "Thou harper, here to me; There is a man, within this halle, That will beate thy ladd and thee." "O lett that man come down," he sayd, Downe then came the kemperye man, For all the golde that was under heaven, He durst not neigh him neare. "And how nowe, kempe," sayd the Kyng of Spayn, "And now what aileth thee?" He sayes, "It is written in his forehead, All, and in gramaryé, That for alle the golde that is under heaven, I dare not neigh him nye." Kyng Estmere then pulled forth his harpe, Upstarte the ladye from the kyng, As he sate att the meate. "Now stay thy harpe, thou proud harpér, For an thou playest as thou beginnest, He struck upon his harpe agayne, Now sell me thy harpe," said the Kyng of Spayn, "Thy harpe and stryngs eche one, And as many gold nobles thou shalt have, As there be stryngs thereon." "And what wolde ye doe with my harpe ?" he sayd, "If I did sell it yee?" "To playe my wyfe and I a fitt, When we together be." "Nowe sell me, Sir Kyng, thy bryde soe gay, As she sits laced in pall, And as many gold nobles I will give, As there be ryngs in the hall." "And what wolde ye doe with my bryde soe gay, Iff I did sell her yee?" "More seemly it is for that fair ladye To wed with me than thee." And aye their swordes soe sore can byte, Through help of gramarye, That soon they have slayne the kemperye men, Or forst them forth to flee. Kyng Estmere took that fayre ladye, And married her to his wyfe, And brought her home to merry England, I must not, however, attempt to quote more of those fine old ballads here; the feuds of the Percy and the Douglas would take up too much space; so would the loves of King Arthur's court, and the adventures of Robin Hood. Even the story of the Heir of Lynne must remain untold; and I must content myself with two of the shortest and least hackneyed poems in a book that for great and varied interest can hardly be surpassed. The "Lie," is said to have been written by Sir Walter Raleigh the night before his execution. That it was written at that exact time is pretty well disproved by the date of its publication in "Davison's Poems," before Sir Walter's death; it is even uncertain that Raleigh was the author; but that it is of that age is beyond all doubt; so is its extraordinary beauty-a beauty quite free from the conceits which deform too many of our finest old lyrics. Go, Soul, the body's guest, Upon a thankless errand; The truth shall be thy warrant. Go tell the Court it glows And shines like rotten wood; Go tell the Church it shows Tell potentates they live Acting by others' actions, Not loved unless they give, Not strong but by their factions: Give potentates the lie. Tell men of high condition |