Rudyard Kipling (1865–1936). Verse: 1885–1918. 1922.
The Last Rhyme of True Thomas
T
The King has taken spur and blade
To dub True Thomas a belted knight,
And all for the sake o’ the songs he made.
They have sought him over down and lea.
They have found him by the milk-white thorn
That guards the gates o’ Faerie.
Their eyes were held that they might not see
The kine that grazed beneath the knowes,
Oh, they were the Queens o’ Faerie!
“Oh, cease your song and get you dight
“To vow your vow and watch your arms,
“For I will dub you a belted knight.
“Wi’ blazon and spur and page and squire;
“Wi’ keep and tail and seizin and law,
“And land to hold at your desire.”
And turned his face to the naked sky,
Where, blown before the wastrel wind
The thistle-down she floated by.
“And bitter oath it was on me.
“I ha’ watched my arms the lee-long night,
“Where five-score fighting men would flee.
“My shield is beat o’ the moonlight cold;
“And I won my spurs in the Middle World,
“A thousand fathom beneath the mould.
“And what should I make wi’ a sword so brown,
“But spill the rings o’ the Gentle Folk
“And flyte my kin in the Fairy Town?
“Wi’ keep and tail and seizin and fee,
“And what should I do wi’ page and squire
“That am a king in my own countrie?
“And I send far as my will may flee,
“By dawn and dusk and the drinking rain,
“And syne my Sendings return to me.
“They come wi’ news o’ the roarin’ sea,
“Wi’ word of Spirit and Ghost and Flesh,
“And man, that’s mazed among the three.”
And smote his hand upon his knee:
“By the faith o’ my soul, True Thomas,” he said,
“Ye waste no wit in courtesie!
“Can I make Earls by three and three,
“To run before and ride behind
“And serve the sons o’ my body.”
“Or all the sons o’ your body?
“Before they win to the Pride o’ Name,
“I trow they all ask leave o’ me.
“As I make Shame wi’ mincin’ feet,
“To sing wi’ the priests at the market-cross,
“Or run wi’ the dogs in the naked street.
“And some they give me the white money,
“And some they give me a clout o’ meal,
“For they be people of low degree.
“The same I sing for the white money,
“But best I sing for the clout o’ meal
“That simple people given me.”
A silver groat o’ Scots money,
“If I come wi’ a poor man’s dole,” he said,
“True Thomas, will ye harp to me?”
“They press me close on either hand.
“And who are you,” True Thomas said,
“That you should ride while they must stand?
“I trow ye talk too loud and hie,
“And I will make you a triple word,
“And syne, if ye dare, ye shall ’noble me.”
And set his back against the stone.
“Now guard you well,” True Thomas said,
“Ere I rax your heart from your breast-bone!”
The fairy harp that couldna lee,
And the first least word the proud King heard,
It harpit the salt tear out o’ his e’e.
“I touch the hope that I may not see,
“And all that I did of hidden shame,
“Like little snakes they hiss at me.
“The dread o’ doom has grippit me.
“True Thomas, hide me under your cloak,
“God wot, I’m little fit to dee!”
’Twas open field and running flood—
Where, hot on heath and dyke and wall,
The high sun warmed the adder’s brood.
“The God shall judge when all is done,
“But I will bring you a better word
“And lift the cloud that I laid on.”
That birled and brattled to his hand,
And the next least word True Thomas made,
It garred the King take horse and brand.
“I see the sun on splent and spear.
“I mark the arrow outen the fern
“That flies so low and sings so clear!
“And bid my good knights prick and ride;
“The gled shall watch as fierce a fight
“As e’er was fought on the Border side!”
’Twas nodding grass and naked sky,
Where, ringing up the wastrel wind,
The eyass stooped upon the pye.
And turned the song on the midmost string;
And the last least word True Thomas made,
He harpit his dead youth back to the King.
“To love my love withouten fear;
“To walk with man in fellowship,
“And breathe my horse behind the deer.
“The buck has couched beyond the burn,
“My love she waits at her window
“To wash my hands when I return.
“(Oh! I have seen my true love’s eyes)
“To stand wi’ Adam in Eden-glade,
“And run in the woods o’ Paradise!”
’Twas running flood and wastrel wind,
Where, checked against the open pass,
The red deer turned to wait the hind.
And louted low at the saddle-side;
He has taken stirrup and hauden rein,
And set the King on his horse o’ pride.
“That sit so still, that muse so long?
“Sleep ye or wake?—till the Latter Sleep
“I trow ye’ll not forget my song.
“To stand before your face and cry;
“I ha’ armed the earth beneath your heel,
“And over your head I ha’ dusked the sky.
“I ha’ harpit your midmost soul in three;
“I ha’ harpit ye down to the Hinges o’ Hell,
“And—ye—would—make—a Knight o’ me!”