A Selection from the Works of Frederick Locker

by Frederick Locker-Lampson

But pert young pages point their thumbes,
Her maids look glumme, in shorte
All wondere how the good Knyghte comes
To tarrie at his sporte.

There is a sudden stir at last;
Men run—and then, with dread,
They vowe Sir Gyles is dying fast!
And then—Sir Gyles is dead!

The bulle hath caughte him near the thornes
They call the Parsonne's Plotte;
The bulle hath tossed him on his hornnes,
Before the brute is shotte.

Now Ladye Gyles is sorelie tryd,
And sinks beneath the shockke:
She weeps from morn to eventyd,
And then till crowe of cockke.

Again the sun returns, but though
The merrie morninge smiles,
No cockke will crow, no bulle will low
Agen for pore Sir Gyles.

And now the knyghte, as seemeth beste,
Is layd in hallowed mould;
All in the mynstere crypt, where rest
His gallant sires and old.

But first they take the olde bulle's skin
And crest, to form a shroud:
And when Sir Gyles is wrapped therein
His people wepe aloud.

Sir Valentyne doth well incline
To soothe my lady's woe;
And soon she'll slepe, nor ever wepe,
An all the cockkes sholde crowe.

Ay soone they are in wedlock tied,
Full soon; and all, in fyne,
That spouse can say to chere his bride,
That sayth Sir Valentyne.

And gay agen are maids and men,
Nor knyghte nor ladye mournes,
Though Valentyne may trembel when
He sees a bulle with hornnes.