SONG.
Oh, merry spring, merry spring!
With sunshine on thy back, and dew upon thy wing
Sweetest bird of all the year.
How I love to see thee here.
And thy choristers to hear,
As they sing.
Oh happy time, happy time!
When buds of hawthorn burst, and honeysuckles climb,
And the maidens of the May,
Hear the sweet bells as they play.
And make out what they say
In their chime.
Oh jolly hours, jolly hours!
Of young and happy hearts, in gay and pleasant bowers,
Could I my spring recall,
I'd be merrier than all;
But my year is in the fall
Of the flowers.
Still, I feel there comes a day
Far brighter, than e'er shone upon this round of clay,
When life with swallow's wing.
Shall find another spring,
And my spirit yet shall sing.
In the ray.
Thus sang Sam the piper, as, with his rolling gait, but at a good pace, he walked on from the high road, running between Atherston and Hinckley, down the narrower walk of the forest, which led, past the cottage of the woodman, to the bank of the stream. His was a merry heart, which sought and found happiness wherever it could be met with, and bore misfortune or adversity as lightly as any heart that ever was created. Oh, blessed thing, that cheerfulness of disposition, which makes its own sunshine in this wintry world--blessed whencesoever it comes, but most blessed when it springs from a fountain of conscious rectitude, a calm unspotted memory, and a bright high hope!
I cannot say that this was exactly the case with our good friend Sam; but he had a wonderful faculty, notwithstanding, of forgetting past pains and shutting his eyes to coming dangers. His wants were so few, that he could entertain but small fear of their not being satisfied; and, though his desires were somewhat more extensive, yet the rims of a trencher and a pottle pot were sufficient to contain them. Apprehensions, he entertained none; cares he had long before cast to the winds; and by circumscribing his pleasures and his necessities, within the smallest possible limits, it was wonderful how easily he walked under the only pack he had to carry through the world. Other men's sorrows and misfortunes, the strife of nations, intestine wars, portents, or phenomena, acts of violence and crime, I may say, afforded him amusement, without at all impugning poor Sam's kindness of heart or goodness of disposition; for all I mean to say is, that they gave him something to gossip about. Now gossiping and singing were Sam's only amusements, since a brutal soldier had cut his bag in twain. Drinking was with him a necessary evil, which he got over as soon as possible, whenever he had the means.
He was now on his way from Hinckley, to disgorge upon the abbey miller, who lived near the bridge, all the budget of news he had collected at that little town, and other places during the last fortnight or three weeks. He would willingly have bestowed a part of the stock upon Boyd the woodman; but he did not venture even to think of doing so, inasmuch as Boyd had always affected to be as great an enemy to gossip as the miller was a friend.
The summer sunshine, however, coming a month or two before its time, had lured Boyd to his door; and there he sat, with a large strong knife in his hand, and sundry long poles of yew and other wood, fashioning arrows with the greatest possible skill. It was wonderful to behold how straight, and round, and even, he cut them without compass or rule, or any other implement but the knife. Then too, how neatly he adjusted the feathers to the shaft, from a bundle of grey goose quills that lay on his left hand. Heads indeed were wanting; but Boyd thought to himself, "I will bring six or eight score from Tamworth when next I go. At all events it is well to be prepared."
As he thus thought, the step of the piper, coming down the road, met his ear, and he looked up; but Sam would have passed him by with a mere "good morning," for he stood in some awe of Master Boyd, had not the woodman himself addressed him, in a tone that might be called almost kindly, saying:
"Well, Sam. How goes the world with you? You have got a new coat and hosen, I see."
"Ay, thanks to the young lord's gold pieces," answered Sam. "He paid well and honestly; and I took a mighty resolution, and spent it on my back rather than on my belly."
"Ay, some grace left!" exclaimed Boyd. "But what has happened to thy pipes, man? They used always to be under thine elbow, and not stuck into thy belt."
"Those rascal troopers slit my bag," answered the piper; "and I shall have to travel through three counties ere I get another. I lost a silver groat, I am sure, by the want of it this very morning; for there was a bright company at Hinckley, and some of them speaking the Scottish tongue. Now every Scot loves the bagpipe."
"But not such pipes as yours," answered Boyd. "Theirs are of a different make. But who were these people, did you hear?"
"Nay, I asked no names," replied Sam; "for Scots do not like to be questioned. But there was a fair lady with them--very fair and very beautiful still, though the spring tide of her life had gone by--and the people called her Highness."
The woodman mused, and then inquired: "Were they all Scottish people?"
"Nay, some were English," answered Sam, "gallants of the king's court, I judge, and speaking as good English as you or I do. But there were Scottish persons of quality too, besides the lady who was so, I am sure--for what English princess should she be?"
"And were they all so gaily dressed then?" asked Boyd, in the same musing tone.
"Some were, and some were not," replied the piper; "but the lady herself was plainest of them all, more like a nun than a princess. But you can see them with your own eyes if you like; for they will pass by in half an hour, if they keep to the time at which they said they would set out. They are going to offer at St. Clare; and you may plant yourself at the gate, or under a tree by the roadside, and they will all pass you like a show."
"I will," replied the woodman; and, rising from his seat, he put his hat, which had been lying beside him, on his head, and was striding away, when suddenly, seeming to recollect himself, he turned back, saying to the piper, "I dare say thou art thirsty and hungry too, Sam. Come in with me, and thou shalt have a draught of ale, and a hunch of ewe-milk cheese."
It was an invitation not to be refused by the piper, to whom meat and drink rarely came amiss. He accordingly followed, and received what was proffered gratefully. The woodman waited not to hear his thanks, but, having seen him drink a moderate quart of ale, sent him away with well nigh half a loaf of brown bread and a lump of cheese as large as his two fists. Then, leaving his huge dog to watch the house, he, himself, took his departure, and walked with a rapid pace to the road which the piper had mentioned. There he stationed himself under the very tree by which he had been standing on a night eventful to him, when he had slain one of the king's couriers or posts. One would have thought the memory must have been painful; but it seemed to affect him not in the least. He stood and gazed upon the very spot where the man had fallen; and, had there not been rain since then, the blood would have been still upon the stones; but, if there was any change in his countenance at all, it was merely that his brow somewhat relaxed, and a faint smile came upon his lip. "It was the hand of justice," he said to himself. "Yet 'tis strange there has been no inquiry. I went in and touched the body; but it did not bleed. The inanimate corpse recognised the hand of the avenger, and refused to accuse."[[4]]
He waited for some time, every now and then looking up the road, and sometimes bending his head to listen. At length he caught the sound of horses' feet coming at a slow pace, and making but little noise; for, as I have said elsewhere, the road was sandy. He then looked up the hill, and saw, coming slowly down, in no very regular order, a party of from twenty to five and twenty persons, male and female. Without waiting for anything but the first casual glance, he withdrew a little further from the road, amongst the high bushes which skirted the forest all round, intermingled with a few taller trees. There, where he could see without being seen, he paused, and crossed his arms upon his chest, looking intently through an aperture in the young green leaves, which afforded a good view of a considerable part of the road. At the end of some three or four minutes after he had taken his station, the cavalcade began to appear. It was headed by a lady on a fine grey horse, which she managed well and gracefully. The description given of her appearance by the wandering musician was quite correct, so far as it went. She was very beautiful, and her skin, most delicately fair and soft, without a wrinkle. Her hair, braided across the forehead, in a mode not usual in England, seemed once to have been nut brown, but was now somewhat streaked with grey. Her figure too was exceedingly fine, though not above the middle height; but it had lost the great delicacy of youth, and assumed the beauties of a more mature age. Her dress was exceedingly plain, consisting of a grey riding-gown, cape, and hood, which had fallen back upon her shoulders; but there was an air of graceful dignity in her whole figure which was not to be mistaken. The expression of her countenance was dignified also; but it was exceedingly grave--grave even to melancholy.
A number of much gayer-looking personages succeeded, and some of their dresses were exceedingly beautiful and even splendid; but the eye of the woodman--as that of most other people would have done--fixed upon that lady alone, was never removed from her for an instant, and followed her down the road till the trees shut her from his sight. Then, after pausing for a moment or two, with his gaze firmly fixed upon the ground, he cast himself down in the long grass, and buried his face in his hands.