Andromeda and Other Poems Part 5

And he hove up his hand to mark the game.

Tyrrel he shot full light, G.o.d wot; For whether the saints they swerved the shot, 'Or whether by treason, men knowen not, But under the arm, in a secret part, The iron fled through the kinges heart.

The turf it squelched where the Red King fell; And the fiends they carried his soul to h.e.l.l, Quod 'His master's name it hath sped him well.'

Tyrrel he smiled full grim that day, Quod 'Shooting of kings is no bairns' play;'

And he smote in the spurs, and fled fast away.

As he p.r.i.c.ked along by Fritham plain, The green tufts flew behind like rain; The waters were out, and over the sward: He swam his horse like a stalwart lord: Men clepen that water Tyrrel's ford.

By Rhinefield and by Osmondsleigh, Through glade and furze brake fast drove he, Until he heard the roaring sea; Quod he, 'Those gay waves they call me.'

By Mary's grace a seely boat On Christchurch bar did lie afloat; He gave the shipmen mark and groat, To ferry him over to Normandie, And there he fell to sanctuarie; G.o.d send his soul all bliss to see.

And fend our princes every one, From foul mishap and trahison; But kings that harrow Christian men Shall England never bide again.

In the New Forest, 1847,

THE OUTLAW

Oh, I wadna be a yeoman, mither, to follow my father's trade, To bow my back in miry banks, at pleugh and hoe and spade.

Stinting wife, and bairns, and kye, to fat some courtier lord,-- Let them die o' rent wha like, mither, and I'll die by sword.

Nor I wadna be a clerk, mither, to bide aye ben, Scrabbling ower the sheets o' parchment with a weary weary pen; Looking through the lang stane windows at a narrow strip o' sky, Like a laverock in a withy cage, until I pine away and die.

Nor I wadna be a merchant, mither, in his lang furred gown, Trailing strings o' footsore horses through the noisy dusty town; Louting low to knights and ladies, fumbling o'er his wares, Telling lies, and sc.r.a.ping siller, heaping cares on cares.

Nor I wadna be a soldier, mither, to dice wi' ruffian bands, Pining weary months in castles, looking over wasted lands.

Smoking byres, and shrieking women, and the grewsome sights o' war-- There's blood on my hand eneugh, mither; it's ill to make it mair.

If I had married a wife, mither, I might ha' been douce and still, And sat at hame by the ingle side to crack and laugh my fill; Sat at hame wi' the woman I looed, and wi' bairnies at my knee: But death is bauld, and age is cauld, and luve's no for me.

For when first I stirred in your side, mither, ye ken full well How you lay all night up among the deer out on the open fell; And so it was that I won the heart to wander far and near, Caring neither for land nor la.s.sie, but the bonnie dun deer.

Yet I am not a losel and idle, mither, nor a thief that steals; I do but hunt G.o.d's cattle, upon G.o.d's ain hills; For no man buys and sells the deer, and the bonnie fells are free To a belted knight with hawk on hand, and a gangrel loon like me.

So I'm aff and away to the muirs, mither, to hunt the deer, Ranging far frae frowning faces, and the douce folk here; Crawling up through burn and bracken, louping down the screes, Looking out frae craig and headland, drinking up the simmer breeze.

Oh, the wafts o' heather honey, and the music o' the brae, As I watch the great harts feeding, nearer, nearer a' the day.

Oh, to hark the eagle screaming, sweeping, ringing round the sky-- That's a bonnier life than stumbling ower the muck to colt and kye.

And when I'm taen and hangit, mither, a brittling o' my deer, Ye'll no leave your bairn to the corbie craws, to dangle in the air; But ye'll send up my twa douce brethren, and ye'll steal me frae the tree, And bury me up on the brown brown muirs, where I aye looed to be.

Ye'll bury me 'twixt the brae and the burn, in a glen far away, Where I may hear the heathc.o.c.k craw, and the great harts bray; And gin my ghaist can walk, mither, I'll go glowering at the sky, The livelong night on the black hill sides where the dun deer lie.

In the New Forest, 1847.

SING HEIGH-HO!

There sits a bird on every tree; Sing heigh-ho!

There sits a bird on every tree, And courts his love as I do thee; Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho!

Young maids must marry.

There grows a flower on every bough; Sing heigh-ho!

There grows a flower on every bough, Its petals kiss--I'll show you how: Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho!

Young maids must marry.

From sea to stream the salmon roam; Sing heigh-ho!

From sea to stream the salmon roam; Each finds a mate, and leads her home; Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho!

Young maids must marry.

The sun's a bridegroom, earth a bride; Sing heigh-ho!

They court from morn till eventide: The earth shall pa.s.s, but love abide.

Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho!

Young maids must marry.

Eversley, 1847.

A MARCH

Dreary East winds howling o'er us; Clay-lands knee-deep spread before us; Mire and ice and snow and sleet; Aching backs and frozen feet; Knees which reel as marches quicken, Ranks which thin as corpses thicken; While with carrion birds we eat, Calling puddle-water sweet, As we pledge the health of our general, who fares as rough as we: What can daunt us, what can turn us, led to death by such as he?

Eversley, 1848.

A LAMENT

The merry merry lark was up and singing, And the hare was out and feeding on the lea; And the merry merry bells below were ringing, When my child's laugh rang through me.

Now the hare is snared and dead beside the snow-yard, And the lark beside the dreary winter sea; And the baby in his cradle in the churchyard Sleeps sound till the bell brings me.

Eversley, 1848.

THE NIGHT BIRD: A MYTH