The Serpent Knight, and Other Ballads

“I am the monk of the shaven crown
Who slew the warrior band,
And never from thee will I shamefully flee
But like a man will stand.”

The first blow gave the Trold, it fell
Upon the monk’s shoulder down,
’Midst of his shoulder broke the skin,
Bebloodied was his gown.

The next blow gave the monk, it struck
The Trold to the verdant sward:
“Now shame befall thee, shaven Monk,
The blows of thy club are hard.

“Now hold thy hand, thou shaven Monk,
And do not strike me more,
And I will give thee silver and gold,
And of coin a plenteous store.”

The Monk he ran, the Trold he crept,
Still equal was their height;
Then shewed he him a little house
With doors of gold so bright.

Then shewed he him a little house
With golden doors fifteen;
There got the Monk of silver and gold
All he could wish I ween.

Seven lasts of silver, seven of gold,
To the cloisters he caus’d convey;
He bade them find a monk could wield
A club in as brave a way.

’Twas drawing fast to an evening hour
And the sun went down to rest,
Still fifteen Roman miles the monk
To the cloister had at least.

’Twas tending fast to the evening tide
And the sun to the earth did haste,
Yet he seized the first dish at the supper board
Ere the Abbot could get a taste.

Full fifteen monks he knock’d down when
No pottage he espied,
And up he hung fifteen because
The herrings were not fried.

Then out and spoke the little boy
Who waited at the meal:
“Each time the monk to the cloister comes
He thus with us will deal.”

And it was getting late at night
And folks to bed should hie,
Then because the Abbot sat too long
He struck him out an eye.

The Abbot hurried off to bed,
No longer dared remain;
I say to ye for verity
He felt both shame and pain.

’Twas early in the morning tide,
The bells began to ring;
It was the monk of the shaven crown
Would neither read nor sing.

So stately strode he up the choir
Where the monks and nuns they stand,
Not one of them dared read or sing
For fear of his stalwart hand.

So they the Abbot pious and good
To a simple monk debased,
And they the Monk of the shaven crown
As Abbot o’er them placed.

And he the cloister held with might
Till thirty years were flown;
Then died as Abbot in mighty fame,
The Monk of the shaven crown.

THE CRUEL STEP-DAME

My father up of the country rode,
He thought to wed a lovely rose;
And there he met a laidly wife,
The source was she of all my woes.

The first night they together slept
She seemed to me a mother mild,
But ere a second night was past
She prov’d a step-dame fierce and wild.

I sat beside my father’s board,
I sported there with hound and pup,