“It’s list! my merry huntsman,
They wot thy coming well,
And wait thee where the pathway dips
To cross the birken dell.”
“It’s good! mine ancient gossip,
How many may there be
Betwixt me and my Christmas tryst
Beneath the greenwood-tree?”
“It’s hark! my merry huntsman,
There’s Bernard of the Bow,
Sir Egbert of the Crooked Arm,
And Giles of Clariveaux;
“There’s Giles, my merry huntsman,
The wiliest of men,
Brother in blood, though black his heart,
To one whose name ye ken.”
“Gramercy! ancient gossip,
And shall these stay my foot?
Then may the House of Hardigrave
Be withered to the root!”
He gave his page his hound in leash,
His hawk and eke his horn,
And gaily did he onward ride
Beneath the Christmas morn.
And now the birken dell was won,
And now the shallow ford,
And now he heard the scabbard ring
Its answer to the sword.
And forth from out the coppice deep
Rode Bernard of the Bow,
Sir Egbert of the Crooked Arm,
And Giles of Clariveaux.
Small parley was there then, God wot,
But bickering of steel,
And down clashed Bernard of the Bow
Beneath his charger’s heel.
And Egbert of the Crooked Arm
Reeled sidewise as he knew
The sharp bite of a falchion’s point
His stricken harness through.