Part 15 (1/2)

Oh, who may this dead warrior be That to his grave they bring?

'Tis William, Duke of Normandy, The conqueror and king.

Across the sea, with fire and sword, The English crown he won; The lawless Scots they owned him lord, But now his rule is done.

A king should die from length of years, A conqueror in the field, A king amid his people's tears, A conqueror on his s.h.i.+eld.

But he, who ruled by sword and flame, Who swore to ravage France, Like some poor serf without a name, Has died by mere mischance.

To Caen now he comes to sleep, The minster bells they toll, A solemn sound it is and deep, May G.o.d receive his soul!

With priests that chant a wailing hymn, He slowly comes this way, To where the painted windows dim The lively light of day.

He enters in. The townsfolk stand In reverent silence round, To see the lord of all the land Take house in narrow ground.

While, in the dwelling-place he seeks, To lay him they prepare, One a.s.selin FitzArthur speaks, And bids the priests forbear.

'The ground whereon this abbey stands Is mine,' he cries, 'by right.

'Twas wrested from my father's hands By lawlessness and might.

Duke William took the land away, To build this minster high.

Bury the robber where ye may, But here he shall not lie.'

The holy brethren bid him cease; But he will not be stilled, And soon the house of G.o.d's own peace With noise and strife is filled.

And some cry shame on a.s.selin, Such tumult to excite, Some say, it was Duke William's sin, And a.s.selin does right.

But he round whom their quarrels keep, Lies still and takes no heed.

No strife can mar a dead man's sleep, And this is rest indeed.

Now a.s.selin at length is won The land's full price to take, And let the burial rites go on, And so a peace they make.

When Harold, king of Englishmen, Was killed in Senlac fight, Duke William would not yield him then A Christian grave or rite.

Because he fought for keeping free His kingdom and his throne, No Christian rite nor grave had he In land that was his own.

And just it is, this Duke unkind, Now he has come to die, In plundered land should hardly find Sufficient s.p.a.ce to lie.

THE DEATH OF WILLIAM RUFUS

The Red King's gone a-hunting, in the woods his father made For the tall red deer to wander through the thicket and the glade, The King and Walter Tyrrel, Prince Henry and the rest Are all gone out upon the sport the Red King loves the best.

Last night, when they were feasting in the royal banquet-hall, De Breteuil told a dream he had, that evil would befall If the King should go to-morrow to the hunting of the deer, And while he spoke, the fiery face grew well-nigh pale to hear.

He drank until the fire came back, and all his heart was brave, Then bade them keep such woman's tales to tell an English slave, For he would hunt to-morrow, though a thousand dreams foretold All the sorrow and the mischief De Breteuil's brain could hold.

So the Red King's gone a-hunting, for all that they could do, And an arrow in the greenwood made De Breteuil's dream come true.

They said 'twas Walter Tyrrel, and so it may have been, But there's many walk the forest when the leaves are thick and green.

There's many walk the forest, who would gladly see the sport, When the King goes out a-hunting with the n.o.bles of his court, And when the n.o.bles scatter, and the King is left alone, There are thickets where an English slave might string his bow unknown.