THE RIME OF SIR LIONNE.

‘Hush, a little, for harp and rhyme;

This befell in the olden time.’

W. Allingham.

In days of old, as rimesters tell,

(Culvert, and petrel, and mangonel),

A maiden dwelt in a castle stout,

Guarded and walled, within, without,

And ever defeat and direful rout

To all her castle’s besiegers fell.

No suitor the maid’s proud heart could win,

(Pike, and halberd, and culverin);

She recked not of love-kiss, ne vow, ne sigh,

But her song had the ring of a battle-cry:

‘O strong is my fortress—a maid am I—

And never a foeman shall enter in.’

But it fell in an evening windy-wet,

(Hauberk, and helmet, and bascinet),

A knight drew rein ’neath the castle wall;

Proud was his port, his stature tall,

His face held the gazer’s eye in thrall,

And a lion of gold on his casque was set.

He winded a bugle silver-clear,

(Mace, and arblast, and bandoleer),

Singing: ‘Yield up thy castle, fair May, to me:

Sir Lionne me hight, of a far countrie.

Now boune thee, Lady, my love to be,

Or I take thee by prowess of bow and spear!’

In the pale, pale light of a crescent moon,

(Spear, and corselet, and musketoon),

She saw him there by the castle wall,

And shrilled to the warder a careless call:

‘Ho!—let portcullis and drawbridge fall;

We would see this bold knight of a braggart tune.’

And oh! but the wind had changed, I trow,

(Falchion, and gauntlet, and good crossbow),

When, an eve from thence, in a fading light,

On the bastion-keep stood a maid and knight,

And, while to his heart he clasped her tight,

‘Thou hast conquered, Sir Lionne!’ she murmured low.

‘I had vowed that no knight beneath the sun,

(Demi-pique, helm, and habergeon),

Beneath the sunlight, or moonbeam shine,

Should be lord of this castle and heart of mine:

But take me, dear love, I am only thine;

My fortress is taken—my heart is won.’

Brinhild.

Printed and Published by W. & R. Chambers, 47 Paternoster Row, London, and 339 High Street, Edinburgh.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Continued from [No. 23, p. 364].

[2] In our former paper, the Great seal or Haff-fish was inadvertently named Phoca barbata instead of Halichœrus gryphus, a mistake which we take this opportunity of rectifying.

[3] ‘Not long since,’ said a writer some years ago in Notes and Queries, ‘an old woman in the neighbourhood of Benares was observed walking round and round a certain peepul-tree. At every round she sprinkled a few drops of water from the water-vessel in her hand on the small offering of flowers she had laid beneath the tree. A bystander, who was questioned as to this ceremony, replied: “This is a sacred tree; the good spirits live up amidst its branches, and the old woman is worshipping them.”’