The Brother Avenged and Other Ballads

Excerpt

I stood before my master’s board,   The skinker’s office plying;The herald-men brought tidings then   That my brother was murdered lying.

I followed my lord unto his bed,   By his dearest down he laid him;Then my courser out of the stall I led,   And with saddle and bit arrayed him.

I sprang upon my courser’s back,   With the spur began to goad him;And ere I drew his bridle to,   Full fifteen leagues I rode him.

And when I came to the noisy hall   Where the Kemps carouse were keeping,O then I saw my mother dear   O’er the corse of my brother weeping.

Then I laid an arrow on my good bow,   The bow that never deceived me;And straight I shot the King’s Kempions twelve,   Of my brother who had bereaved me.

And then to the Ting I rode away,   Where the judges twelve were seated;Of six to avenge my brother I begged,   And of six protection entreated.

For the third time rode I to the Ting,   For deep revenge I lusted;Up stood the liege-man of the King,   And at me fiercely thrusted.

Up stood the liege-man of the King,   With a furious thrust toward me;And the Judges twelve rose in the Ting,   And an outlaw’d man declared me.

Then I laid an arrow on my good bow,   And the bow to its utmost bent I;And into the heart of the King’s liege-man   The sharp, sharp arrow sent I.

Then away from the Ting amain I sped,   And my good steed clomb in hurry;There was nothing for me but to hasten and flee,   And myself ’mong the woods to bury.

And hidden for eight long years I lay   Amid the woods so lonely;I’d nothing to eat in that dark retreat   But grass and green leaves only.

I’d nothing to eat in that dark retreat,   Save the grass and leaves I devoured;No bed-fellows crept to the place where I slept,   But bears that brooned and roared.

So near at hand was the holy tide   Of our Lady of mercies tender;The King of the Swedes his followers leads,   And rides to the Church in splendour.

So I laid an arrow on my good bow,   As I looked from the gap so narrow;And into the heart of the Swedish King   I sent the yard-long arrow.

Now lies on the ground the Swedish King,   And the blood from his death-wound showers;So blythe is my breast, though still I must rest   Amid the forest bowers.

To kiss a pair of red lips small   Full many a lover sighs;If I kiss anything at all,   Let it be Sophy’s eyes.The eyes, the eyes, whose witcheries   Have filled my heart with care;Too dear I prize the eyes, the eyes   Of Sophy Ribeaupierre.

Were I the Czar, my kingly crown,   My troops and victories,And fair renown I’d all lay down   To kiss but Sophy’s eyes.The charming eyes, whose witcheries   Have filled my heart with care;Too dear I prize the charming eyes   Of Sophy Ribeaupierre.

Perhaps I’ve seen a fairer face,   Though hers may well surprise;A form perhaps of lovelier grace,   But, oh! the eyes, the eyes!The matchless eyes, whose witcheries   Have filled my heart with care;I well may prize the matchless eyes   Of Sophy Ribeaupierre.

What with the polished diamond-stone   Can vie beneath the skies?Oh, it is vied and far outshone   By Sophy’s beaming eyes.By Sophy’s eyes, whose witcheries   Have filled my heart with care;Well may I prize the beaming eyes   Of Sophy Ribeaupierre.

The sun of June burns furiously,   And brooks and meadows dries;But, oh, with more intensity   Burn cruel Sophy’s eyes...!