Symphonious notes of dulcet plaint
Followed the stranger minstrel’s chaunt;
And, when his sounding harp was dumb,
The crowd, with loud applausive hum,
Gave hearty guerdon for his strain;
While some with sighs expressed what pain
Had pierced their simple bosoms thorow
To hear his song of death and sorrow.

“Come bear the mead-cup to our guest,”
Said Thorold to his daughter;
“We thought to hear, at our Yule feast,
A lay of mirth and laughter;
But, to thy harp, thou well hast sung
A song that may impart,
For future hours, to old and young,
Deep lessons to the heart.
Yet, should not life be all a sigh!
Good Snell, do thou a burthen try
Shall change our sadness into joy:
Such as thou trollest in blythe mood,
On days of sunshine in the wood.
Tell out thy heart withouten fear
For none shall stifle free thoughts here!
But, bear the mead-cup, Edith sweet!
We crave our stranger guest will greet
All hearts, again, with minstrelsy,
When Snell hath trolled his mirth-notes free!”

Fairer than fairest flower that blows,
Sweeter than breath of sweetest rose,
Still on her cheek, in lustre left,
The tear the minstrel’s tale had reft
From its pearl-treasure in the brain
The limbec where, by mystic vein,
From the heart’s fountains are distilled
Those crystals, when ’tis overfilled,
With downcast eye, and trembling hands,
Edith before the stranger stands
Stranger to all but her!
Though well the baron notes his brow,
While the young minstrel kneeleth low
Love’s grateful worshipper!
And doth with lips devout impress
The hand of his fair ministress!

Yet, was the deed so meekly done,
His guerdon seemed so fairly won,
The tribute he to beauty paid
So deeply all believed deserved,
That nought of blame Sir Wilfrid said,
Though much his thoughts from meekness swerved.

Impatience, soon, their faces tell
To hear the song of woodman Snell,
Among the festive crew;
And, soon, their old and honest frère,
Elated by the good Yule cheer,
In untaught notes, but full and clear,
Thus told his heart-thoughts true:

The Woodman’s Song.

I would not be a crowned king,
For all his gaudy gear;
I would not be that pampered thing,
His gew-gaw gold to wear:
But I would be where I can sing
Right merrily, all the year;
Where forest treen,
All gay and green,
Full blythely do me cheer.

I would not be a gentleman,
For all his hawks and hounds,
For fear the hungry poor should ban
My halls and wide-parked grounds:
But I would be a merry man,
Among the wild wood sounds,
Where free birds sing,
And echoes ring
While my axe from the oak rebounds.

I would not be a shaven priest,
For all his sloth-won tythe:
But while to me this breath is leased,
And these old limbs are lithe,
Ere Death hath marked me for his feast,
And felled me with his scythe,
I’ll troll my song,
The leaves among,
All in the forest blythe.

“Well done, well done!” bold Thorold cried,
When the woodman ceased to sing;
“By’r Lady! it warms the Saxon tide
In our veins to hear thee bring
These English thoughts so freely out!
Thy health, good Snell!” and a merry shout
For honest boldness, truth, and worth,
The baron’s grateful guests sent forth.

Silence like grave-yard air, again,
Pervades the festive space:
All list for another minstrel strain;
And the youth, with merrier face,
But tender notes, thus half-divulged
The passion which his heart indulged:

The Minstrel’s Song.

O choose thou the maid with the gentle blue eye,
That speaketh so softly, and looketh so shy;
Who weepeth for pity,
To hear a love ditty,
And marketh the end with a sigh.

If thou weddest a maid with a wide staring look,
Who babbleth as loud as the rain-swollen brook,
Each day for the morrow
Will nurture more sorrow,
Each sun paint thy shadow a-crook.

The maid that is gentle will make a kind wife;
The magpie that prateth will stir thee to strife:
’Twere better to tarry,
Unless thou canst marry
To sweeten the bitters of life!

What fires the youthful minstrel’s lay
Lit in De Thorold’s eyes,
It needs not, now, I soothly say:
Sweet Edith had softly stolen away,
And ’mid his own surprise,
Blent with the boisterous applause
That, instant, to the rafters rose,
The baron his jealous thought forgot.
Quickly, sithence a jocund note
Was fairly struck in every mind,
And jolly ale its power combined
To fill all hearts with deeper glee,
All wished for gleeful minstrelsy;
And every eye was shrewdly bent
On one whose caustic merriment
At many a blythe Yule-tide had bin
Compelling cause of mirthful grin
To ancient Torksey’s rustic folk.

Full soon this sturdy summons broke
From sire and son, and maid and mother:
“Ho, ho! saint Leonard’s fat lay brother!
Why dost thou in the corner peep,
And sipple as if half asleep
Thou wert with this good nappy ale?
Come, rouse thee! for thy sly old tale
Of the Miller of Roche and the hornless devil,
We’ll hear, or we leave our Yule-night revel!
Thy folded cloak come cast aside!
Beneath it thou dost thy rebeck hide
It is thy old trick we know it well
Pledge all! and thy ditty begin to tell!”
“Pledge all, pledge all!” the baron cried;
“Let mirth be free at good Yule-tide!”

Then, forth the lay brother his rebeck drew,
And athwart the triple string
The bow in gamesome mood he threw,
His joke-song preluding;
Soon, with sly look, the burly man,
In burly tones his tale began.

The Miller of Roche.

The lay brother of saint Leonard’s tale.

O the Prior of Roche
Was without reproach
While with saintly monks he chanted;
But when from the mass
He had turned his face,
The prior his saintship scanted.

O the Miller of Roche,
I swear and avouch,
Had a wife of nut-brown beauty;
And to shrive her, they say,
The prior, each day,
Came with zeal to his ghostly duty.

But the neighbouring wives,
Who ne’er shrove in their lives,
Such wickedness Sathanas whispers!
Said the black-cloaked prior
By the miller’s log fire,
Oft tarried too late for vespers!

O the thunder was loud,
And the sky wore a shroud,
And the lightning blue was gleaming;
And the foaming flood,
Where the good mill stood,
Pell-mell o’er the dam was teeming.

O the Miller, that night,
Toiled on in a fright,
Though, through terror, few bushels he grinded!
Yet, although he’d stayed long,
The storm was so strong
That full loath to depart was he minded.

Lo! at midnight a jolt,
As loud as the bolt
Of the thunder on high that still rumbled,
Assailed the mill-doors,
And burst them, perforce,
And in a drenched beggar-lad stumbled!

“Saint Luke and saint John
Save the ground we stand on”
Cried the Miller, “but ye come in a hurry;”
While the lad, turning pale,
’Gan to weep and to wail,
And to patter this pitiful story:

“Goodman Miller, I pray,
Believe what I say,
For, as surely as thou art a sinner,
Since the break of the morn
I have wandered forlorn,
And have neither had breakfast nor dinner!”

O the Miller looked sad,
And cried, “Good lack, my lad!
But ye tell me a dolorous ditty!
And ye seem in sad plight
To travel to-night:
The sight o’ ye stirs up one’s pity!

“Go straight to my cot,
And beg something that’s hot,
For ye look very haggard and hollow:
The storm’s nearly o’er;
I will not grind much more,
And when I have done, I will follow.

“Keep by the brook-side!
The path is not wide
But ye cannot soon stray, if ye mind it;
At the foot of the hill,
Half a mile from the mill,
Stands my cottage: ye can’t fail to find it.”

Then out the lad set,
All dripping with wet,
But the skies around him seemed brighter;
And he went gaily on,
For his burthen was gone,
And his heart in his bosom danced lighter.

Adown by the brook
His travel he took,
And soon raught the Miller’s snug dwelling;
But, what he saw ere
He was admitted there
By Saint Bridget! I must not be telling!

Thus much I may say
That the cot was of clay,
And the light was through wind-cracks ejected;
And he placed close his eye,
And peeped in, so sly,
And saw what he never expected!

O the lad ’gan to fear
That the Miller would appear,
And, to him, this strange sight would be vexing;
So he, first, sharply coughed,
And, then, knocked very soft,
Lest his summons should be too perplexing.

But, I scorn to think harm!
So pass by all alarm,
And trembling, and bustle, and terror,
Occasioned within:
The first stone at sin
Let him cast who, himself, hath no error!

In inquisitive mood,
The eaves-dropper stood,
By the wind-cracks still keeping his station;
Till, half-choked with fear,
A voice cried, “Who’s there?”
Cried the beggar, “Mary grant ye salvation!

“I’m a poor beggar-lad,
Very hungry and sad,
Who have travelled in rain and in thunder;
I am soaked, through and through”
Cried the voice, “Perhaps ’tis true
But who’s likely to help thee, I wonder?

“Here’s a strange time of night
To put folk in a fright,
By waking them up from their bolsters!
Honest folk, by Saint Paul!
Abroad never crawl,
At the gloom-hour of night when the owl stirs!”

But the Miller now came,
And, hearing his dame
So sharply the beggar-lad scolding,
Said, “Open, sweet Joan!
And I’ll tell thee, anon,
When thy brown cheek, once more, I’m beholding,

“Why this poor lad is found
So late on our ground
Haste, my pigeon! for here there’s hard bedding!”
So the door was unbarred;
But the wife she frowned hard,
As the lad, by the door, thrust his head in.

And she looked very cold
While her lord the tale told;
And then she made oath, by our Lady,
Such wandering elves
Might provide for themselves
For she would get no supper ready!

O the Miller waxed wroth,
And vowed, by his troth,
While the beggar slunk into a corner,
If his termagant wife
Did not end her ill strife,
He would change words for blows, he’d forewarn her!

O the lad he looked sly,
And with mischievous eye,
Cried, “Bridle your wrath, Goodman Grinder!
Don’t be in a pet,
For I don’t care a fret!
Your wife, in a trice, will be kinder!

“In the stars I have skill,
And their powers, at my will,
I can summon, with food to provide us:
Say, what d’ye choose?
I pray, don’t refuse:
Neither hunger nor thirst shall betide us!”

O the Miller he frowned,
And rolled his eyes round,
And seemed not the joke to be liking;
But the lad did not heed:
He was at his strange deed,
And the table was chalking and striking!

With scrawls straight and crookt,
And with signs square and hookt,
With the lord of each house, or the lady,
The table he filled,
Like a clerk ‘ith’ stars skilled,
And, striking, cried “Presto! be ready!

“A jug of spiced wine
’S in the box, I divine!
Ask thy wife for the key, and unlock it!
Nay, stop!” the lad said;
“We shall want meat and bread;”
And the chalk took again from his pocket.

O the lad he looked wise,
And, in scholarly guise,
Completed his horary question:
“A brace of roast ducks
Thou wilt find in the box,
With the wine sure as I am a Christian!

“And a white wheaten loaf;
Quick! proceed to the proof!”
Cried the beggar, while Grist stood stark staring;
Though the lad’s weasel eyes
Shone so wondrously wise,
That to doubt him seemed sin over-daring!

O the Miller’s wife, Joan,
Turning pale, ’gan to groan;
But the Miller, arousing his spirits,
Said, “Hand me the key,
And our luck we will see
A faint heart no fortune inherits.”

But, Gramercy! his looks
When he opened the box,
And at what he saw in it stood wondering!
How his sturdy arm shook,
While the wine-jug he took,
And feared he would break it with blundering!

Faith and troth! at the last,
On the table Grist placed
The wine and the ducks hot and smoking!
Yet he felt grievous shy
His stomach to try
With cates of a wizard’s own cooking!

But, with hunger grown fell,
The lad sped so well,
That Grist was soon tempted to join in;
While Joan sat apart,
And looked sad at heart,
And some fearful mishap seemed divining!

O the lad chopped away,
And smiling so gay,
Told stories to make his host merry:
How the Moon kittened stars,
And how Venus loved Mars,
And often went to see him in a wherry!

O the Miller he laughed,
And the liquor he quaffed;
But the beggar new marvels was hatching:
Quoth he “I’m a clerk,
And I swear, by saint Mark,
That the Devil from hell I’ll be fetching!”

O the wife she looked scared,
And wildly Grist stared,
And cried, “Nay, my lad, nay, thou’rt not able!”
But the lad plied his chalk,
And muttered strange talk
Till Grist drew his stool from the table!

Then the lad quenched the rush,
And cried, “Bring a gorse-bush,
And under the caldron now kindle!”
But the Miller cried, “Nay!
Give over, I pray!”
For his courage began fast to dwindle.

Quoth the lad, “I must on
Till my conjuring’s done;
To break off just now would be ruin:
So fetch me the thorns,
And a devil without horns,
In the copper I soon will be brewing!”

O the Miller he shook
For fear his strange cook
Should, indeed and in truth, prove successful;
But feeling ashamed
That his pluck should be blamed,
Strove to smother his heart-quake distressful.

So the fuel he brought,
And said he feared nought
Of the Devil being brewed in his copper:
He’d as quickly believe
Nick would sit in his sieve,
Or dance ’mong the wheat in his hopper:

And yet, lest strange ill,
From such conjuring skill,
Should arise, and their souls be in danger,
He would have his crab-stick,
And would show my lord Nick
Some tricks to which he was a stranger!

O the lad ’gan to raise
’Neath the caldron a blaze,
While the Miller, his crab-cudgel grasping,
Stood on watch, for his life!
But his terrified wife
Her hands in devotion was clasping!

When the copper grew warm,
Quoth the lad, “Lest some harm
From the visit of Nick be betiding,
Set open the door,
And not long on the floor
Will the Goblin of Hell be abiding!”

Quickly so did the host,
And returned to his post,
Uplifting his cudgel with trembling:
His strength was soon proved,
For the copper-lid moved!
When Grist’s fears grew too big for dissembling.

Turning white as the wall,
His staff he let fall,
While the Devil from the caldron ascended,
And, all on a heap,
With a flying leap,
On the fear-stricken Miller descended!

In dread lest his soul,
In the Devil’s foul goal,
Should be burnt to a spiritual cinder,
Grist grabbed the Fiend’s throat,
And his grisly eyes smote,
Till Nick’s face seemed a platter of tinder!

Yea, with many a thwack,
Grist battered Nick’s back,
Nor spared Satan’s portly abdomen!
Hot Nick had lain cold
By this time but his hold
Grist lost, through the screams of his woman!

While up from the floor,
And out, at the door,
Went the Fiend, with the skip of a dancer!
He seemed panic-struck,
Or, doubted his luck,
For he neither staid question nor answer!

“Grist!” the beggar-lad cried,
“Lay your trembling aside,
And tell me, my man, how ye like him.
’Twas well ye were cool:
He’d have proved ye a fool,
Had ye dar’d with the cudgel to strike him!”

“By saint Martin!” Grist said,
And, scratching his head,
Seemed pondering between good and evil,
“I could swear and avouch
’Twas the Prior of Roche,
If thou hadst not said ’twas the Devil!”

And, in deed and in sooth,
Though a marvellous truth,
Yet such was the Fiend’s revelation!
But think it not strange
He should choose such a change:
’Tis much after his old occupation:

An angel of light,
’Tis his darling delight
To be reckoned ’tis very well tested:
I argue, therefore,
’Twas not sinning much more,
In the garb of a Prior to be vested.

Though, with wink, nod, and smile
O the world’s very vile!
Grist’s neighbours told tales unbelieving,
How the beggar, so shrewd,
Monk and supper had viewed,
And produced ’em! the Miller deceiving!

But I do not belong
To that heretic throng
Who measure their faith with their eyesight:
Thus much I may say
Grist’s cottage of clay
Never, now, doth the Prior of Roche visit:

But, the sly beggar-lad,
Be he hungry or sad,
A remedy finds for each evil
In the Miller’s good cheer,
Any day of the year;
And though Joan looketh shy she is civil!

The tale was rude, but pleased rude men;
And clamorous many a clown grew, when
The rebeck ceased to thrill:
Ploughboy and neatherd, shepherd swain,
Gosherd and swineherd, all were fain
To prove their tuneful skill.

But, now, Sir Wilfrid waved his hand,
And gently stilled the jarring band:
“What ho!” he cried, “what ails your throats?
Be these your most melodious notes?
Forget ye that to-morrow morn
Old Yule-day and its sports return,
And that your frères, from scrogg and carr,
From heath and wold, and fen, afar,
Will come to join ye in your glee?
Husband your mirth and minstrelsy,
And let some goodly portion be
Kept for their entertainment meet.
Meanwhile, let frolic guide your feet,
And warm your winter blood!
Good night to all! For His dear sake
Who bore our sin, if well we wake,
We’ll join to banish care and sorrow
With mirth and sport again to-morrow!”
And forth the Baron good
Passed from his chair, midst looks of love
That showed how truly was enwove
Full, free, and heartfelt gratitude
For kindly deeds, in bosoms rude.

The broad hall-doors were open cast,
And, smiling, forth De Thorold passed.
Yet, was the crowning hour unflown
Enjoyment’s crowning hour!
A signal note the pipe hath blown,
And a maiden at the door
Craves curtsied leave, with roseate blush,
To bring the sacred missel-bush.

Gaily a younker leads the fair,
Proud of his dimpled, blushing care:
All clap their hands, both old and young,
And soon the misseltoe is hung
In the mid-rafters, overhead;
And, while the agile dance they thread,
Such honey do the plough-lads seize
From lips of lasses as the bees
Ne’er sip from sweetest flowers of May.

All in the rapture of their play,
While shrilly swells the mirthsome pipe,
And merrily their light feet trip,
Leave we the simple happy throng
Their mirth and rapture to prolong.