What power can stay the burst of song
When throats with ale are mellow?
What wight with nieve so stout and strong
Dares lift it, jolly frères among,
And cry, “Knaves, cease to bellow?”

“’Twas doleful drear,” the gossips vowed,
To hear the minstrel’s piteous tale!
But, when the swineherd tuned his crowd,
And the gosherd began to grumble loud,
The gossips smiled, and sipped their ale!

“A boon, bold Thorold!” boldly cried
The gosherd from Croyland fen;
“I crave to sing of the fen so wide,
And of geese and goosish men!”

Loud loffe they all; and the baron, with glee,
Cried “begin, good Swithin! for men may see
Thou look’st so like a knowing fowl,
Of geese thou art skilled right well to troll!”

Stout Swithin sware the baron spake well,
And his halting ditty began to tell:
The rhyme was lame, and dull the joke,
But it tickled the ears of clownish folk.

The Gosherd’s Song.

’Tis a tale of merry Lincolnshire
I’ve heard my grannam tell;
And I’ll tell it to you, my masters, here,
An’ it likes you all, full well.

A Gosherd on Croyland fen, one day,
Awoke, in haste, from slumber;
And on counting his geese, to his sad dismay,
He found there lacked one of the number.

O the Gosherd looked west, and he looked east,
And he looked before and behind him;
And his eye from north to south he cast
For the gander but couldn’t find him!

So the Gosherd he drave his geese to the cote,
And began, forthwith, to wander
Over the marshy wild remote,
In search of the old stray gander.

O the Gosherd he wandered till twilight gray
Was throwing its mists around him;
But the gander seemed farther and farther astray
For the Gosherd had not yet found him.

So the Gosherd, foredeeming his search in vain,
Resolved no farther to wander;
But to Croyland he turned him, in dudgeon, again,
Sore fretting at heart for the gander.

Thus he footed the fens so dreary and dern,
While his brain, like the sky, was dark’ning;
And with dread to the scream o’ the startled hern
And the bittern’s boom he was heark’ning.

But when the Gosherd the church-yard reached,
Forefearing the dead would be waking,
Like a craven upon the sward he stretched,
And could travel no farther for quaking!

And there the Gosherd lay through the night,
Not daring to rise and go further:
For, in sooth, the Gosherd beheld a sight
That frighted him more than murther!

From the old church clock the midnight hour
In hollow tones was pealing,
When a slim white ghost to the church porch door
Seemed up the footpath stealing!

Stark staring upon the sward lay the clown,
And his heart went “pitter patter,”
Till the ghost in the clay-cold grave sunk down,
When he felt in a twitter-twatter!

Soon stretching aloft its long white arms
From the grave the ghost was peeping!
Cried the Gosherd, “Our Lady defend me from harms,
And Saint Guthlacke have me in his keeping!”

The white ghost hissed! the Gosherd swooned!
In the morn, on the truth ’tis no slander,
Near the church porch door a new grave he found,
And, therein, the white ghost his stray gander!

The Gosherd, scarce, his mirthful meed
Had won, ere Tibbald of Stow,
With look as pert as the pouncing glede
When he eyeth the chick below,
Scraped his crowd,
And clear and loud,
As the merle-cock shrill,
Or the bell from the hill,
Thus tuned his throat to his rough sire’s praise
His sire the swineherd of olden days:

The Swineherd’s Song.

I sing of a swineherd, in Lindsey, so bold,
Who tendeth his flock in the wide forest-fold:
He sheareth no wool from his snouted sheep:
He soweth no corn, and none he doth reap:
Yet the swineherd no lack of good living doth know:
Come jollily trowl
The brown round bowl,
Like the jovial swineherd of Stow!

He hedgeth no meadows to fatten his swine:
He renteth no joist for his snorting kine:
They rove through the forest, and browse on the mast,
Yet, he lifteth his horn, and bloweth a blast,
And they come at his call, blow he high, blow he low!
Come, jollily trowl
The brown round bowl,
And drink to the swineherd of Stow!

He shunneth the heat ’mong the fern-stalks green,
Or dreameth of elves ’neath the forest treen:
He wrappeth him up when the oak leaves sere
And the ripe acorns fall, at the wane o’ the year;
And he tippleth at Yule, by the log’s cheery glow.
Come, jollily trowl
The brown round bowl,
And pledge the bold swineherd of Stow!

The bishop he passeth the swineherd in scorn,
Yet, to mass wends the swineherd at Candlemas morn;
And he offereth his horn, at our Lady’s hymn,
With bright silver pennies filled up to the brim:
Saith the bishop, “A very good fellow, I trow!”
Come, jollily trowl
The brown round bowl,
And honour the swineherd of Stow!

And now the brave swineherd, in stone, ye may spy,
Holding his horn, on the Minster so high!
But the swineherd he laugheth, and cracketh his joke,
With his pig-boys that vittle beneath the old oak,
Saying, “Had I no pennies, they’d make me no show!”
Come, jollily trowl
The brown round bowl,
And laugh with the swineherd of Stow!

So merrily the chorus rose,
For every guest chimed in,
That, had the dead been there to doze,
They had surely waked with the din!
So the rustics said while their brains were mellow;
And all called the swineherd “a jolly good fellow!”

“Come, hearty Snell!” said the Baron good;
“What sayest thou more of the merry greenwood?”

“I remember no lay of the forest, now,”
Said Snell, with a glance at three maids in a row;
“Belike, I could whimper a love-lorn ditty,
If Tib, Doll, and Bell, would listen with pity!”

“Then chaunt us thy love-song!” cried Baron and guests;
And Snell, looking shrewd, obeyed their behests.

The Woodman’s Love Song.

Along the meads a simple maid
One summer’s day a musing strayed,
And, as the cowslips sweet she pressed,
This burthen to the breeze confessed
I fear that I’m in love!

For, ever since so playfully
Young Robin trod this path with me,
I always feel more happy here
Than ever I have felt elsewhere:
I fear that I’m in love!

And, ever since young Robin talked
So sweetly, while alone we walked,
Of truth, and faith, and constancy,
I’ve wished he always walked with me:
I fear that I’m in love!

And, ever since that pleasing night
When, ’neath the lady moon’s fair light,
He asked my hand, but asked in vain,
I’ve wished he’d walk, and ask again:
I fear that I’m in love!

And yet, I greatly fear, alas!
That wish will ne’er be brought to pass!
What else to fear I cannot tell:
I hope that all will yet be well
But, surely, I’m in love!

Coy was their look, but true their pleasure,
While the maidens listed the woodman’s measure;
Nor shrunk they at laughter of herdsman or hind,
But mixed with the mirth, and still looked kind.

One maid there was who faintly smiled,
But never joined their laughter:
And why, by Yule-mirth unbeguiled,
Sits the Baron’s beauteous daughter?
Why looks she downcast, yet so sweet,
And seeketh no eyes with mirth to greet?

“My darling Edith, hast no song?”
Saith Thorold, tenderly;
“Our guests have tarried to hear thee, long,
And looked with wistful eye!”

Soft words the peerless damosel
Breathes of imperfect skill:
“Sweet birds,” smiles the Baron, “all know right well,
Can sweetly sing an’ they will.”

And the stranger minstrel, on his knee,
Offers his harp, with courtesy
So rare and gentle, that the hall
Rings with applause which one and all
Render who share the festival.

De Thorold smiled; and the maiden took
The harp, with grace in act and look,
But waked its echoes tremulously,
Singing no noisy jubilee,
But a chanson of sweetly stifled pain
So sweet when ended all were fain
To hear her chaunt it o’er again.

The Baron’s Daughter’s Song.

I own the gay lark is the blythest bird
That welcomes the purple dawn;
But a sweeter chorister far is heard
When the veil of eve is drawn:

When the last lone traveller homeward wends
O’er the moorland, drowsily;
And the pale bright moon her crescent bends,
And silvers the soft gray sky;

And in silence the wakeful starry crowd
Their vigil begin to keep;
And the hovering mists the flowerets shroud,
And their buds in dew-drops weep;

Oh, then the nightingale’s warbling wild,
In the depth of the forest dark,
Is sweeter, by far, to Sorrow’s child,
Than the song of the cheerful lark!

“’Twas sweet, but somewhat sad,” said some;
And the Baron sought his daughter’s eye,
But, now, there fell a shade of gloom
On the cheek of Edith; and tearfully,
He thought she turned to shun his look.

He would have asked his darling’s woe,
But the harp, again, the minstrel took;
And with such prelude as awoke
Regretful thoughts of an ancient foe
In Thorold’s soul, the minstrel stranger
In spite of fear, in spite of danger,
In measures sweet and soft, but quaint,
Responded thus to Edith’s plaint:

The Minstrel’s Response.

What meant that glancing of thine eye,
That softly hushed, yet struggling sigh?
Hast thou a thought of woe or weal,
Which, breathed, my bosom would not feel?
Why should’st thou, then, that thought conceal,
Or hide it from my mind, Love?

Did’st thou e’er breathe a sigh to me,
And I not breathe as deep to thee?
Or hast thou whispered in mine ear
A word of sorrow or of fear,
Or have I seen thee shed a tear,
And looked a thought unkind, Love?

Did e’er a gleam of Love’s sweet ray
Across thy beaming countenance play,
Or joy its seriousness beguile,
And o’er it cast a radiant smile,
And mine with kindred joy, the while,
Not glow as bright as thine, Love?

Why would’st thou, then, that something seek
To hide within thy breast, nor speak,
Its load of doubt, of grief, or fear,
Of joy, or sorrow, to mine ear,
Assured this heart would gladly bear
A burthen borne by thine, Love?

Sir Wilfrid sat in thoughtful mood,
When the youthful minstrel’s song was ended;
While Edith by her loved sire stood,
And o’er his chair in sadness bended.
The guests were silent; for the chaunt,
Where all, of late, were jubilant,
Had kindled quick imagining
Who he might be that thus dared sing
Breathing of deep and fervent feeling
His tender passion half-revealing.

Soon, sportive sounds the silence broke:
Saint Leonard’s lay-brother,
Who seldom could smother
Conception of mischief, or thought of a joke,
Drew forth his old rebeck from under his cloak,
And touching the chords
To brain-sick words,
While he mimicked a lover’s phantasy,
Upward rolling his lustrous eye,
With warblings wild
He flourished and trilled,
Till mother and maiden aloud ’gan to laugh,
And clown challenged clown more good liquor to quaff.

These freakish rhymes, in freakish measure,
He chaunted, for his wayward pleasure.

The Lay-Brother’s Love Song.

The lilies are fair, down by the green grove,
Where the brooklet glides through the dell;
But I view not a lily so fair, while I rove,
As the maid whose name I could tell.

The roses are sweet that blush in the vale,
Where the thorn-bush grows by the well;
But they breathe not a perfume so sweet on the gale
As the maid whose name I could tell.

The lark singeth sweetly up in the sky,
Over song-birds bearing the bell;
But one bird may for music the skylark defy,
’Tis the maid whose name I could tell.

The angels all brightly glitter and glow,
In the regions high where they dwell;
But they beam not so bright as one angel below,
’Tis the maid whose name I could tell.

Sport may, a while, defy heart-cares,
And woo faint smiles from pain;
Jesting, a while, may keep down tears
But they will rise, again!

And saddening thoughts of others’ care,
Unwelcome, though they be, to share,
And though self-love would coldly say
“Let me laugh on, while others bear
Their own grief-fardels as they may!”
Yet, while in sadness droops a brother,
No brother-heart can sadness smother:
The tear of fellowship will start
The tongue seek comfort to impart.

And English hearts, of old, were dull
To quell their yearnings pitiful:
The guests forgot the jester’s strain,
To think upon the harp again,
And of the youth who, to its swell,
So late, his sighs did syllable.

Natheless, no guest was skilled to find,
At once, fit words that might proclaim,
For one who seemed without a name,
Their sympathy; and so, with kind
Intent, they urged some roundelay
The stranger minstrel would essay.

He struck the harp, forthwith, but sung
Of passion still, and still it clung
To Love his full, melodious tongue!

The Minstrel’s Avowal.

O yes! I hold thee in my heart;
Nor shall thy cherished form depart
From its loved home: though sad I be,
My heart, my Love, still cleaves to thee!

My dawn of life is dimmed and dark;
Hope’s flame is dwindled to a spark;
But, though I live thus dyingly,
My heart, my Love, still cleaves to thee!

Though short my summer’s day hath been,
And now the winter’s eve is keen,
Yet, while the storm descends on me,
My heart, my Love, still cleaves to thee!

No look of love upon me beams,
No tear of pity for me streams:
A thing forlorn despairingly
My heart, my Love, still cleaves to thee!

Thine eye would pity wert thou free
To soothe my woe; and though I be
Condemned to helpless misery,
My heart, my Love, still cleaves to thee!

The maidens wept the clowns looked glum
Each rustic reveller was dumb:
Sir Wilfrid struggled hard to hide
Revengeful throes and ireful pride,
That, now, his wounded bosom swelled,
For in that youth he had beheld
An image which had overcast
His life with sorrow in the Past:
He struggled, and besought the youth
To leave his strains of woe and ruth
For some light lay, or merry rhyme,
More fitting Yule’s rejoicing time.
And, though it cost him dear, the while,
He eyed the minstrel with a smile.

The stranger waited not to note
The Baron’s speech: like one distraught
He struck the harp a wild farewell
Thus breathing to its deepest swell:

The Minstrel’s Farewell.

Oh! smile not upon me my heart is not smiling:
Too long it hath mourned, ’neath reproach and reviling:
Thy smile is a false one: it never can bless me:
It doth not relieve, but more deeply distress me!

I care not for beauty; I care not for riches:
I am not the slave whom their tinsel bewitches:
A bosom I seek
That is true, like mine own,
Though pale be the cheek,
And its roses all flown,
And the wearer be desolate, wretched, forlorn,
And alike from each soul-soothing solace be torn.

That heart I would choose, which is stricken and slighted;
Whose joys are all fled, and whose hopes are all blighted;
For that heart alone
Would in sympathy thrill
With one like my own
That sorrow doth fill;
With a heart whose fond breathings have ever been spurned,
And hath long their rejection in solitude mourned.

The harp of my heart is unstrung; and to gladness
Respond not its chords but to sorrow and sadness:
Then speak not of mirth which my soul hath forsaken!
Why would ye my heart-breaking sorrows awaken?

It is the shriek of deathful danger!
None heed the heart-plaint of the stranger!
All start aghast, with deadly fear,
While they, again, that wild shriek hear!

“He drowns Sir Wilfrid!” cries a hind:
“The ferryman is weak:
He cannot stem the stream and wind:
Help, help! for Jesu’s sake!”

“Help one, help all!” the Baron cries;
“Whatever boon he craves,
I swear, by Christ, that man shall win,
My ferryman who saves!”

Out rush the guests: but one was forth
Who heard no word of boon:
His manly heart to deeds of worth
Needed no clarion.

He dashed into the surging Trent
Nor feared the hurricane;
And, ere the breath of life was spent,
He seized the drowning man.

“What is thy boon?” said Torksey’s lord,
But his cheek was deadly pale;
“Tell forth thy heart, and to keep his word
De Thorold will not fail.”

“I rushed to save my brother-man,
And not to win thy boon:
My just desert had been Heaven’s ban
If thus I had not done!”

Thus spake the minstrel, when the hall
The Baron’s guests had gained:
And, now, De Thorold’s noble soul
Spoke out, all unrestrained.

“Then for thy own heart’s nobleness
Tell forth thy boon,” he said;
“Before thou tell’st thy thought, I guess
What wish doth it pervade.”

“Sweet Edith, his true, plighted love,
Romara asks of thee!
What though my kindred with thee strove,
And wrought thee misery?

“Our Lord, for whom we keep this day,
When nailed upon the tree;
Did he foredoom his foes, or pray
That they might pardoned be?”

“Son of my ancient foe!” replied
The Baron to the youth,
I glad me that my ireful pride
Already bows to truth:

“Deep zeal to save our brother-man
Generous self-sacrifice
For other’s weal is nobler than
All blood-stained victories!

“Take thy fair boon! for thou hast spoiled
Death, greedy Death of prey
This poor man who for me hath toiled
Full many a stormy day!

“I feel to quell the heart’s bad flame,
And bless an enemy,
Is richer than all earthly fame
Though the world should be its fee!

“My sire was by thy kinsman slain;
Yet, as thy tale hath told,
Thy kinsman’s usurping act was vain
He died in the dungeon cold.

“Perish the memory of feud,
And deeds of savage strife!
Blood still hath led to deeds of blood,
And life hath paid for life!

“My darling Edith shall be thine
My blood with thine shall blend
The Saxon with the Norman line
In love our feuds shall end.

“In age I’ll watch ye bless the poor,
And smile upon your love;
And, when my pilgrimage is o’er,
I hope to meet above

“Him who on earth a Babe was born
In lowliness, as on this morn,
And tabernacled here below,
Lessons of brotherhood to show!”

High was the feast, and rich the song,
For many a day, that did prolong
The wedding-revelry:

But more it needeth not to sing
Of our fathers’ festive revelling:
How will the dream agree
With waking hours of famished throngs,
Brooding on daily deepening wrongs
A stern reality!

With pictures, that exist in life,
Of thousands waging direful strife
With gaunt Starvation, in the holds
Where Mammon vauntingly unfolds
His boasted banner of success?

Oh, that bruised hearts, in their distress,
May meet with hearts whose bounteousness
Helps them to keep their courage up,
“Bating no jot of heart or hope!"

My suffering brothers! still your hope
Hold fast, though hunger make ye droop!
Right glorious Right shall yet be done!
The Toilers’ boon shall yet be won!
Wrong from its fastness shall be hurled
The World shall be a happy world!
It shall be filled with brother-men,
And merry Yule oft come again!