FullReads

Brown Britomarte lay dead in her straw
Next morn–we buried her–brave old girl!
John Kerr, we tried him by martial law,
And we twisted some hemp for the trait’rous churl;
And she–I met her alone–said she,
“You have risk’d your life, you have lost your mare,
And what can I give in return, Ralph Leigh?”
I replied, “One braid of that bright brown hair.”
And with that she bow’d her beautiful head,
“You can take as much as you choose,” she said.

And I took it–it may be, more than enough–
And I shore it rudely, close to the roots.
The wine or wounds may have made me rough,
And men at the bottom are merely brutes.
Three weeks I slept at St. Hubert’s Chase;
When I woke from the fever of wounds and wine,
I could scarce believe that the ghastly face
That the glass reflected was really mine.
I sought the hall–where a wedding HAD BEEN–
The wedding of Guy and of Gwendoline.

The romance of a grizzled old trooper’s life
May make you laugh in your sleeves: laugh out,
Lads; we have most of us seen some strife;
We have all of us had some sport, no doubt.
I have won some honour and gain’d some gold,
Now that our king returns to his own;
If the pulses beat slow, if the blood runs cold,
And if friends have faded and loves have flown,
Then the greater reason is ours to drink,
And the more we swallow the less we shall think.

At the battle of Naseby, Miles was slain,
And Huntly sank from his wounds that week;
We left young Clare upon Worcester plain–
How the “Ironside” gash’d his girlish cheek.
Aye, strut, and swagger, and ruffle anew,
Gay gallants, now that the war is done!
They fought like fiends (give the fiend his due)–
We fought like fops, it was thus they won.
Holdsworth is living for aught I know,
At least he was living two years ago,

And Guy–Lord Guy–so stately and stern,
He is changed, I met him at Winchester;
He has grown quite gloomy and taciturn.
Gwendoline!–why do you ask for her?
Died as her mother had died before–
Died giving birth to the baby Guy!
Did my voice shake? Then am I fool the more.
Sooner or later we all must die;
But, at least, let us live while we live to-night.
The DAYS may be dark, but the LAMPS are bright.

For to me the sunlight seems worn and wan:
The sun, he is losing his splendour now–
He can never shine as of old he shone
On her glorious hair and glittering brow.
Ah! those DAYS THAT WERE, when my beard was black,
NOW I have only the NIGHTS THAT ARE.
What, landlord, ho! bring in haste burnt sack,
And a flask of your fiercest usquebaugh.
You, Cuthbert! surely you know by heart
The story of HER and of Britomarte.