A Little Book of Western Verse Part 2

MADGE: YE HOYDEN

At Madge, ye hoyden, gossips scofft, Ffor that a romping wench was shee-- "Now marke this rede," they bade her oft, "Forsooken sholde your folly bee!"

But Madge, ye hoyden, laught & cried, "Oho, oho," in girlish glee, And noe thing mo replied.

II

No griffe she had nor knew no care, But gayly rompit all daies long, And, like ye brooke that everywhere Goes jinking with a gladsome song, Shee danct and songe from morn till night,-- Her gentil harte did know no wrong, Nor did she none despight.

III

Sir Tomas from his n.o.blesse halle Did trend his path a somer's daye, And to ye hoyden he did call And these ffull evill words did say: "O wolde you weare a silken gown And binde your haire with ribands gay?

Then come with me to town!"

IV

But Madge, ye hoyden, shoke her head,-- "I'le be no lemman unto thee For all your golde and gownes," shee said, "ffor Robin hath bespoken mee."

Then ben Sir Tomas sore despight, And back unto his hall went hee With face as ashen white.

V

"O Robin, wilt thou wed this girl, Whenas she is so vaine a sprite?"

So spak ffull many an envious churle Unto that curteyse countrie wight.

But Robin did not pay no heede; And they ben wed a somer night & danct upon ye meade.

VI

Then sca.r.s.e ben past a yeare & daye Whan Robin toke unto his bed, And long, long time therein he lay, Nor colde not work to earn his bread; in soche an houre, whan times ben sore, Sr. Tomas came with haughtie tread & knockit at ye doore.

VII

Saies: "Madge, ye hoyden, do you know how that you once despighted me?

But He forgiff an you will go my swete harte lady ffor to bee!"

But Madge, ye hoyden, heard noe more,-- straightway upon her heele turnt shee, & shote ye cottage doore.

VIII

Soe Madge, ye hoyden, did her parte whiles that ye years did come and go; 't was somer allwais in her harte, tho' winter strewed her head with snowe.

She toilt and span thro' all those years nor bid repine that it ben soe, nor never shad noe teares.

IX

Whiles Robin lay within his bed, A divell came and whispered lowe,-- "Giff you will doe my will," he said, "None more of sickness you shall knowe!"

Ye which gave joy to Robin's soul-- Saies Robin: "Divell, be it soe, an that you make me whoale!"

X

That day, upp rising ffrom his bed, Quoth Robin: "I am well again!"

& backe he came as from ye dead, & he ben mickle blithe as when he wooed his doxy long ago; & Madge did make ado & then Her teares ffor joy did flowe.

XI

Then came that h.e.l.l-born cloven thing-- Saies: "Robin, I do claim your life, and I hencefoorth shall be your king, and you shall do my evill strife.

Look round about and you shall see sr. Tomas' young and ffoolish wiffe-- a comely dame is shee!"

XII

Ye divell had him in his power, and not colde Robin say thereto: Soe Robin from that very houre did what that divell bade him do; He wooed and dipt, and on a daye Sr. Tomas' wife and Robin flewe a many leagues away.

XIII

Sir Tomas ben wood wroth and swore, And sometime strode thro' leaf & brake and knockit at ye cottage door and thus to Madge, ye hoyden, spake: Saies, "I wolde have you ffor mine own, So come with mee & bee my make, syn tother birds ben flown."

XIV

But Madge, ye hoyden, bade him noe; Saies: "Robin is my swete harte still, And, tho' he doth despight me soe, I mean to do him good for ill.

So goe, Sir Tomas, goe your way; ffor whiles I bee on live I will ffor Robin's coming pray!"

XV

Soe Madge, ye hoyden, kneelt & prayed that G.o.dde sholde send her Robin backe.

And tho' ye folke vast scoffing made, and tho' ye worlde ben colde and blacke, And tho', as moneths dragged away, ye hoyden's harte ben like to crack With griff, she still did praye.

XVI

Sicke of that divell's d.a.m.ned charmes, Aback did Robin come at last, And Madge, ye hoyden, sprad her arms and gave a cry and held him fast; And as she clong to him and cried, her patient harte with joy did brast, & Madge, ye hoyden, died.

OLD ENGLISH LULLABY

Hush, bonnie, dinna greit; Moder will rocke her sweete,-- Balow, my boy!

When that his toile ben done, Daddie will come anone,-- Hush thee, my lyttel one; Balow, my boy!

Gin thou dost sleepe, perchaunce Fayries will come to daunce,-- Balow, my boy!

Oft hath thy moder seene Moonlight and mirkland queene Daunce on thy slumbering een,-- Balow, my boy!

Then droned a bomblebee Saftly this songe to thee: "Balow, my boy!"

And a wee heather bell, Pluckt from a fayry dell, Chimed thee this rune hersell: "Balow, my boy!"

Soe, bonnie, dinna greit; Moder doth rock her sweete,-- Balow, my boy!

Give mee thy lyttel hand, Moder will hold it and Lead thee to balow land,-- Balow, my boy!