Fytte ye First.
Geraldus the Abbot sat bolt upright,
Bolt upright, in his great arm-chair,
He ground his teeth, and his beard beneath
Seemed crêpé with anger every hair;
And every hair, whether grizzled or white,
On his head stood erect (as so often the case is,
Whene’er fury or fear better feeling effaces).
Thus encircling his tonsure, which same a smooth space is,
In the desert of scalp a monastic oasis!
Geraldus the Abbot his temper had lost,
Insult had fall’n on the Prelate proud—
Heretic hands in a blanket had tost
Lay Brother Ludwig, one of the crowd
Of the Abbot’s dependents, a useful and able man,
Neither fish, flesh, nor fowl, half a friar, half stable-man.
But this shaking his brain so completely had addled,
That the next time Geraldus’s palfrey he saddled,
He forgot both the girths, an important omission,
Which occasioned a sudden and rude imposition
On our general Mamma: (we allude to the Earth,
Who most kindly supports us, who gave our race birth,
And will give, when breath fails, and we cannot replace it,
Furnished lodgings, a stone, and the motto, “Hic jacet.”)
“Hic” did “jacet” Geraldus, when rashly he tried,
Foot in stirrup, to climb to his saddle and ride;
For the saddle turned round,
And he came to the ground,
With a hollow and pectoral “woughf” kind of sound.
(Printing cannot express it,
But ’twill help you to guess it,
If you’ve ever remarked the peculiar behaviour,
When he rams a large stone, of an Irish pavier.)
Well, he wasn’t much hurt,
But appeared from the dirt,
Which adhered to his mitre and robes, to be rather
A ghastly and horrible sight for a Father
Confessor, who ere he thus rudely was tost
In the mire, was got up regardless of cost.
For this fall he vowed vengeance, and straightway on that theme a
Writ was prepared which wound up with “Anathema!”
Yolenta of Corteryke sat in her bower,
Which was not an arbour
Where earwigs might harbour,
And availing themselves of some al fresco tea-table,
Lie and kick on their backs amidst everything eatable,
But the very best room in the very best tower.
Yolenta was young and Yolenta was fair,
She’d extremely pink cheeks and extremely smooth hair,
And a pair of bright eyes with so roguish a glance in ’em,
That the spirit of mischief and fun seemed to dance in ’em;
And a sweet little foot and a dear little hand,
And a thorough-bred air, and a look of command,
As noble a lady as one in the land.
Yet Yolenta had “suffered;”—her little affairs
Of the heart had gone roughly, a custom of theirs
From time immemorial, since Helen lost Troy,
And pious Æneas made Dido a toy
Of the moment, then left her, a striking variety,
In the uniform course of his orthodox piety.
A young gent was her first love, of birth and condition,
Whose very name, Loridon, seemed an admission
He was formed to adore, but then what’s in a name?
Had they christened him Jack, she’d have “loved him the same,”
Because—mark the reason—her Pa had been rude
To his Guv’nor, which led to a family feud.
So the Lord Lettelhausen called up his son Loridon,
And exclaimed, “Of all girls, to have fixed on that horrid one!
The daughter, you scamp, of the man I detest!
But I’ll never consent! if I do, I’ll be—blest!
Miss Yolenta, indeed! why, my garters and stars!
This is worse than your tricks with latch-keys and cigars!
Now, be off to the wars, nor on any pretences,
Show your face here again till you’ve come to your senses.”
So Malbrook se va-t-en guerre,
In a state of deep despair.
Then Yolenta’s papa thought he’d best take a part in it,
By performing the rôle of the tyrant and Martinet,
And proposed as a suitor,
An old co-adjutor
In many a dark deed, which no one but a brute or
Barbarian would perpetrate, one Baron Corteryke,
Whom he coolly informed her she certainly ought to like,
But, whether or no, in a week’s time must marry—
And his will being the law,
This medieval Bashaw
Pooh-pooh’d Ma’mselle’s suggestion of wishing to tarry,
And so, sending to Gunter, got up, like John Parry,
A first-rate entertainment, and vast charivari;
But yet, after all, was unable to carry
Out his cruel intentions, for ’twixt cup and lip
There occurred in this case a most notable slip;
To describe it, our metre we’ve stol’n, ’twill be seen,
From the song of one “Jock,” who’s sirnamed Hazeldean.
“The kirk was deckt at even-tide,
The tapers glimmered fair,
The Baron Cort’ryke sought his bride,
And this time she was there!
She said, ‘I will,’ as if a pill
Had stuck within her throat,
But fortune kind was still inclined
To grant an antidote;
“For scarce beside the altar stone,
The nuptial knot was tied,
When some vile party, name unknown,
Stabbed Cort’ryke in the side!
His anguish sore, not long he bore,
Physicians wor in vain,
Death did consider, him and his widder,
And eased him of his pain.”
So the lovely Yolenta was “quit for the fright”
Took the name, tin, and castle (a rare widow’s mite)
And wondered how Loridon fared in the fight.
“It was Geraldus’ serving man,
Ludwigus he was hight,
For fair Bettye, that damsel free,
He sighed both day and night;
Fair Bettye at the tapestry wrought,
In Dame Yolenta’s bower;
To ease the pain of this her swain,
She lacked both will and power.
“Dan Cupid, that mischievous boy,
Ludwig to sorrow brought;
For ogling of the fair Bettye,
Him, Dame Yolenta caught;
And as in true love men are still
(As well as oysters) crossed,
Ludwig, to cure his fantasy,
Was in a blanket tossed.”
“Hinc illæ lachrymæ,” thence all these woes!
From this pitching and tossing the shindy arose!
’Tis the voice of a Herald! I heard him proclaim,
That he carries a summons for Corteryke’s dame,
Which sets forth how that same
Fair lady’s to blame,
For the high misdemeanour, the sin, and the shame,
Of tossing a lay brother, Ludwig by name,
In a blanket, whereby she did cut, wound, and maim,
And maliciously injure, and wilfully lame,
And despitefully maltreat, deride, and make game,
And confuse, and abuse, and misuse, and defame!
A monk of Saint Benedict,
Which by a then edict
Was a legal offence; so Yolenta was cited
To appear, and show cause
Why she’d broken the laws,
At the next petty sessions, where she was invited
To plead in her own proper person, and wait a
Decree from my Lord Lettelhausen, the pater
Of poor banished Loridon, likewise the frater
Of the plaintiff Geraldus, an excellent hater
Of all who opposed him, a reg’lar first-rater,
Full of envy and malice, a real aggravator,
Who’d have charmed Doctor Johnson, that learn’d commentator,
Had he chanced but to live a few centuries later.
The Herald he stood in the castle hall,
Seneschal, warder, and page, were there;
And he read his citation fair and free,
In a baritone voice that went up to G,
As loudly as he could bawl.
And he cleared his throat, and he pushed back his hair
With a negligent, nonchalant, jaunty air;
As though he would ask of the bystanding “parties,”—
“Pri’thee what do ye think of me, my hearties?”
Yolenta she smiled, and Yolenta she frowned,
And her delicate foot in a pet tapped the ground;
And when she turned to the herald to greet him,
The flash of her eye seemed to say she could eat him;
Though their points curled up to the knees of his trews,
I’d have been sorry to stand in his shoes.
Then she answered him shortly and sweetly,—
“Ye’re a bold man, Sir Herald, I trow—
A bold and an insolent man, I ween;
A scurrilous knave, I make mine avow;
But perhaps you may find that I’m not quite so green
As your masters imagine. You’ve done it most featly
This time I’ll allow;
But it struck me just now,
When you entered my castle to kick up this row,
You’d have fared quite as well if you’d journey’d on farther;
I’m afraid you’ve, young man, put your foot in it—rather!”
Then she signed with her hand, and six mutes in black armour,
As by magic appeared, laid their lances in rest,
And directed their points to the herald’s bare breast,—
A sight which it must be confessed might alarm a
Brave man in those very unscrupulous days,
When a life more or less, was a mere bagatelle;
And when sticking a porker, or stabbing a swell,
Were alike household duties—a singular phase
In those “sweet” Middle Ages, on which such dependence is
Placed by young ladies with “Puseyite” tendencies.
Howe’er this may be,
Our herald felt he
Had no “call” to assist in this felo de se;
So straight fell on his knee,
And exclaimed, “Don’t you see,
Noble Countess Yolenta, this good jest at present
Is a great deal too pointed and sharp to be pleasant?
I humbly beg pardon,
So pray don’t be hard on
A penitent cove, whose name’s printed this card on.”
Then he handed his pasteboard, gilt type, and a border,
Stamped,
DE RODON.
Heraldic work furnished to order.
Yolenta she smiled, and Yolenta she frowned,
Then light rang her laugh with its silvery sound.
“Rise, valiant De Rodon,” she mockingly cried,
“And behold by what foemen your mettle’s been tried.”
Then each sable spearsman his vizor unclasps,
And six laughing girls with bright mischievous eyes,
Poke their fun at De Rodon, who’s mute with surprise
And disgust, while Yolenta her riding wand grasps,
Sharply switches the recreant kneeling before her,
And turns to depart,—
When up with a start
Springs De Rodon, and pallid with anger leans o’er her.
Then hisses these words in her ear,—“Ere you smile
Or rejoice in your stratagem, listen awhile,
And learn that a herald discharging his duty
Is sacred; despite of your wealth, rank, and beauty,
For the stroke you have dealt me your fair hand is forfeit;
By the axe of the headsman, ere many days, off it
Shall be hewn, and when next men to fury you goad on,
Bear in mind the revenge of the herald De Rodon!”