Andromeda, and Other Poems

There’s Tyrrel as sour as I, perdie,
So he of you all shall hunt with me;
A grimly brace for a hart to see.’

The Red King down from Malwood came;
His heart with wine was all aflame,
His eyne were shotten, red as blood,
He rated and swore, wherever he rode.
They roused a hart, that grimly brace,
A hart of ten, a hart of grease,
Fled over against the kingés place.
The sun it blinded the kingés ee,
A fathom behind his hocks shot he:
‘Shoot thou,’ quod he, ‘in the fiendés name,
To lose such a quarry were seven years’ shame.’
And he hove up his hand to mark the game.
Tyrrel he shot full light, God 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 kingés heart.
The turf it squelched where the Red King fell;
And the fiends they carried his soul to hell,
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 pricked 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;
God 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 scraping 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 lassie, but the bonnie dun deer.

Yet I am not a losel and idle, mither, nor a thief that steals;
I do but hunt God’s cattle, upon God’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;