“Signor,” replied the other, “you must not judge of the kernel by the shell. We are scarcely yet arrived at the camp. These are the outskirts, occupied rather by the rabble than the soldiers. Twenty thousand men from the sink, it must be owned, of every town in Italy, follow the camp, to fight if necessary, but rather for plunder, and for forage:—such you now behold. Presently you will see those of another stamp.”
The Knight’s heart swelled high. “And to such men is Italy given up!” thought he. His revery was broken by a loud burst of applause from some convivialists hard by. He turned, and under a long tent, and round a board covered with wine and viands, sate some thirty or forty bravoes. A ragged minstrel, or jongleur, with an immense beard and mustachios, was tuning, with no inconsiderable skill, a lute which had accompanied him in all his wanderings—and suddenly changing its notes into a wild and warlike melody, he commenced in a loud and deep voice the following song:—
The Praise of the Grand Company.
1.
Ho, dark one from the golden South,—
Ho, fair one from the North;
Ho, coat of mail and spear of sheen—
Ho, wherefore ride ye forth?
“We come from mount, we come from cave,
We come across the sea,
In long array, in bright array,
To Montreal’s Companie.”
Oh, the merry, merry band.
Light heart, and heavy hand—
Oh, the Lances of the Free!
2.
Ho, Princes of the castled height—
Ho, Burghers of the town;
Apulia’s strength, Romagna’s pride,
And Tusca’s old renown!
Why quail ye thus? why pale ye thus?
What spectre do ye see?
“The blood-red flag, and trampling march,
Of Montreal’s Companie.”
Oh, the sunshine of your life—
Oh, the thunders of your strife!
Wild Lances of the Free!
3.
Ho, scutcheons o’er the vaulted tomb
Where Norman valour sleeps,
Why shake ye so? why quake ye so!
What wind the trophy sweeps?
“We shake without a breath—below,
The dead are stirred to see,
The Norman’s fame revived again
In Montreal’s Companie.”
Since Roger won his crown,
Who hath equalled your renown,
Brave Lances of the Free?
4.
Ho, ye who seek to win a name,
Where deeds are bravest done—
Ho, ye who wish to pile a heap,
Where gold is lightest won;
Ho, ye who loathe the stagnant life,
Or shun the law’s decree,
Belt on the brand, and spur the steed,
To Montreal’s Companie.
And the maid shall share her rest,
And the miser share his chest,
With the Lances of the Free!
The Free!
The Free!
Oh! the Lances of the Free!
Then suddenly, as if inspired to a wilder flight by his own minstrelsy, the jongleur, sweeping his hand over the chords, broke forth into an air admirably expressive of the picture which his words, running into a rude, but lively and stirring doggerel, attempted to paint.
The March of the Grand Company.
Tira, tirala—trumpet and drum—
Rising bright o’er the height of the mountain they come!
German, and Hun, and the Islandrie,
Who routed the Frenchman at famed Cressie,
When the rose changed its hue with the fleur-de-lis;
With the Roman, and Lombard, and Piedmontese,
And the dark-haired son of the southern seas.
Tira, tirala—more near and near
Down the steep—see them sweep;—rank by rank they appear!
With the Cloud of the Crowd hanging dark at their rear—
Serried, and steadied, and orderlie,
Like the course—like the force—of a marching sea!
Open your gates, and out with your gold,
For the blood must be spilt, or the ransom be told!
Woe, Burghers, woe! Behold them led
By the stoutest arm and the wisest head,
With the snow-white cross on the cloth of red;—
With the eagle eye, and the lion port,
His barb for a throne, and his camp for a court:
Sovereign and scourge of the land is he—
The kingly Knight of the Companie!
Hurrah—hurrah—hurrah!
Hurrah for the army—hurrah for its lord—
Hurrah for the gold that is got by the sword—
Hurrah—hurrah—hurrah!
For the Lances of the Free!
Shouted by the full chorus of those desperate boon-companions, and caught up and re-echoed from side to side, near and far, as the familiar and well-known words of the burthen reached the ears of more distant groups or stragglers, the effect of this fierce and licentious minstrelsy was indescribable. It was impossible not to feel the zest which that daring life imparted to its daring followers, and even the gallant and stately Knight who listened to it, reproved himself for an involuntary thrill of sympathy and pleasure.
He turned with some impatience and irritation to his companion, who had taken a part in the chorus, and said, “Sir, to the ears of an Italian noble, conscious of the miseries of his country, this ditty is not welcome. I pray you, let us proceed.”
“I humbly crave your pardon, Signor,” said the Free Companion; “but really so attractive is the life led by Free Lances, under Fra Moreale, that sometimes we forget the—; but pardon me—we will on.”