Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.rnVol. I. Early Poetry: Chaucer to Donne
BalladsRomantic: Glasgerion
G
And a harper he was goode;
He harped in the kings chambere,
Where cuppe and caudle stoode,
Till ladies waxed glad,
And then bespake the kinges daughter,
And these wordes thus shee sayd:
Of thy striking doe not blinne;
Theres never a stroke comes oer thy harpe,
But it glads my hart withinne.’
‘Who taught you nowe to speake!
I have loved you, ladye, seven longe yeere,
My minde I neere durst breake.’
When all men are att rest:
As I am a ladie true of my promise,
Thou shalt bee a welcome guest.’
A glad man, lord! was hee:
‘And, come thou hither, Jacke my boy,
Come hither unto mee.
Hath granted mee my boone;
And att her chambere must I bee
Beffore the cocke have crowen.’
‘Lay your head downe on this stone;
For I will waken you, master deere,
Afore it be time to gone.’
And hose and shoone did on;
A coller he cast upon his necke,
He seemed a gentleman.
He thrild upon a pinn:
The lady was true of her promise,
And rose and lett him inn.
To boulster nor to bed:
Nor thoughe hee had his wicked wille,
A single word he sed.
Nor when he came, nor yode:
And sore that ladye did mistrust,
He was of some churls bloud.
And did off his hose and shoone;
And cast the coller from off his necke:
He was but a churles sonne.
The cock hath well-nigh crowen;
Awake, awake, my master deere,
I hold it time to be gone.
Well bridled I have your steede,
And I have served you a good breakfast,
For thereof ye have need.’
And did on hose and shoone,
And cast a coller about his necke:
For he was a kinge his sonne.
He thrilled upon the pinne;
The lady was more than true of promise,
And rose and let him inn.
Your bracelet or your glove?
Or are you returned back againe
To know more of my love?’
By oake, and ashe, and thorne;
‘Ladye, I was never in your chambere,
Sith the time that I was borne.’
He hath beguiled mee:’
Then shee pulled forth a little pen-knìffe,
That hanged by her knee.
Within my bodye spring:
No churlès blood shall eer defile
The daughter of a kinge.’
And woe, good lord! was hee:
Sayes, ‘Come thou hither, Jacke my boy,
Come hither unto mee.
Jacke, I would tell it thee:
But if I have not killed a man to-night,
Jacke, thou hast killed three.’
And dryed it on his sleeve,
And he smote off that lither ladds head,
Who did his ladye grieve.
The pummil until a stone:
Throw the falsenesse of that lither ladd,
These three lives were all gone.