O the Prior of Roche
Was without reproach
While with saintly monks he chanted;
But when from the mass
He had turned his face,
The prior his saintship scanted.
O the Miller of Roche,—
I swear and avouch,—
Had a wife of nut-brown beauty;
And to shrive her,—they say,—
The prior, each day,
Came with zeal to his ghostly duty.
But the neighbouring wives,
Who ne'er shrove in their lives,—
Such wickedness Sathanas whispers!—
Said the black-cloaked prior
By the miller's log fire,
Oft tarried too late for vespers!
O the thunder was loud,
And the sky wore a shroud,
And the lightning blue was gleaming;
And the foaming flood,
Where the good mill stood,
Pell-mell o'er the dam was teeming.
O the Miller, that night,
Toiled on in a fright,—
Though, through terror, few bushels he grinded!
Yet, although he'd stayed long,
The storm was so strong
That full loath to depart was he minded.
Lo! at midnight a jolt,
As loud as the bolt
Of the thunder on high that still rumbled,
Assailed the mill-doors,
And burst them, perforce,—
And in a drenched beggar-lad stumbled!
"Saint Luke and saint John
Save the ground we stand on"—
Cried the Miller,—"but ye come in a hurry;"
While the lad, turning pale,
'Gan to weep and to wail,
And to patter this pitiful story:
"Goodman Miller, I pray,
Believe what I say,—
For, as surely as thou art a sinner,—
Since the break of the morn
I have wandered forlorn,
And have neither had breakfast nor dinner!"
O the Miller looked sad,
And cried, "Good lack, my lad!
But ye tell me a dolorous ditty!—
And ye seem in sad plight
To travel to-night:—
The sight o' ye stirs up one's pity!
"Go straight to my cot,
And beg something that's hot,—
For ye look very haggard and hollow:—
The storm's nearly o'er;
I will not grind much more,—
And when I have done, I will follow.
"Keep by the brook-side!
The path is not wide—
But ye cannot soon stray, if ye mind it;—
At the foot of the hill,
Half a mile from the mill,
Stands my cottage:—ye can't fail to find it."
Then out the lad set,
All dripping with wet,—
But the skies around him seemed brighter;
And he went gaily on,—
For his burthen was gone,—
And his heart in his bosom danced lighter.
Adown by the brook
His travel he took,
And soon raught the Miller's snug dwelling;—
But, what he saw ere
He was admitted there—
By Saint Bridget!—I must not be telling!
Thus much I may say—
That the cot was of clay,
And the light was through wind-cracks ejected;
And he placed close his eye,
And peeped in, so sly,—
And saw—what he never expected!
O the lad 'gan to fear
That the Miller would appear,—
And, to him, this strange sight would be vexing;
So he, first, sharply coughed,
And, then, knocked very soft,—
Lest his summons should be too perplexing.
But, I scorn to think harm!—
So pass by all alarm,
And trembling, and bustle, and terror,
Occasioned within:
The first stone at sin
Let him cast who, himself, hath no error!
In inquisitive mood,
The eaves-dropper stood,
By the wind-cracks still keeping his station;
Till, half-choked with fear,
A voice cried, "Who's there?"—
Cried the beggar, "Mary grant ye salvation!—
"I'm a poor beggar-lad,
Very hungry and sad,
Who have travelled in rain and in thunder;
I am soaked, through and through"—
Cried the voice, "Perhaps 'tis true—
But who's likely to help thee, I wonder?
"Here's a strange time of night
To put folk in a fright,
By waking them up from their bolsters!—
Honest folk, by Saint Paul!
Abroad never crawl,
At the gloom-hour of night—when the owl stirs!"
But the Miller now came,
And, hearing his dame
So sharply the beggar-lad scolding,
Said, "Open, sweet Joan!
And I'll tell thee, anon,—
When thy brown cheek, once more, I'm beholding,
"Why this poor lad is found
So late on our ground—
Haste, my pigeon!—for here there's hard bedding!"—
So the door was unbarred;—
But the wife she frowned hard,
As the lad, by the door, thrust his head in.
And she looked very cold
While her lord the tale told;
And then she made oath, by our Lady,—
Such wandering elves
Might provide for themselves—
For she would get no supper ready!
O the Miller waxed wroth,
And vowed, by his troth,—
While the beggar slunk into a corner,—
If his termagant wife
Did not end her ill strife,
He would change words for blows, he'd forewarn her!
O the lad he looked sly,
And with mischievous eye,
Cried, "Bridle your wrath, Goodman Grinder!—
Don't be in a pet,—
For I don't care a fret!—
Your wife, in a trice, will be kinder!
"In the stars I have skill,
And their powers, at my will,
I can summon, with food to provide us:
Say,—what d'ye choose?
I pray, don't refuse:—
Neither hunger nor thirst shall betide us!"
O the Miller he frowned,
And rolled his eyes round,
And seemed not the joke to be liking;
But the lad did not heed:
He was at his strange deed,
And the table was chalking and striking!
With scrawls straight and crookt,
And with signs square and hookt,
With the lord of each house, or the lady,
The table he filled,
Like a clerk 'ith' stars skilled,—
And, striking, cried "Presto! be ready!—
"A jug of spiced wine
'S in the box,—I divine!
Ask thy wife for the key, and unlock it!—
Nay, stop!" the lad said;
"We shall want meat and bread;"
And the chalk took again from his pocket.
O the lad he looked wise,
And, in scholarly guise,
Completed his horary question:—
"A brace of roast ducks
Thou wilt find in the box,
With the wine—sure as I am a Christian!—
"And a white wheaten loaf;—
Quick! proceed to the proof!"—
Cried the beggar,—while Grist stood stark staring;—
Though the lad's weasel eyes
Shone so wondrously wise,
That to doubt him seemed sin over-daring!
O the Miller's wife, Joan,
Turning pale, 'gan to groan;
But the Miller, arousing his spirits,
Said, "Hand me the key,
And our luck we will see—
A faint heart no fortune inherits."
But,—Gramercy!—his looks—
When he opened the box,
And at what he saw in it stood wondering!
How his sturdy arm shook,
While the wine-jug he took,
And feared he would break it with blundering!
Faith and troth! at the last,
On the table Grist placed
The wine and the ducks—hot and smoking!
Yet he felt grievous shy
His stomach to try
With cates of a wizard's own cooking!
But, with hunger grown fell,
The lad sped so well,
That Grist was soon tempted to join in;
While Joan sat apart,
And looked sad at heart,
And some fearful mishap seemed divining!
O the lad chopped away,
And smiling so gay,
Told stories to make his host merry:—
How the Moon kittened stars,—
And how Venus loved Mars,
And often went to see him in a wherry!
O the Miller he laughed,
And the liquor he quaffed;
But the beggar new marvels was hatching:—
Quoth he "I'm a clerk,
And I swear, by saint Mark,
That the Devil from hell I'll be fetching!"—
O the wife she looked scared,
And wildly Grist stared,
And cried, "Nay, my lad, nay,—thou'rt not able!"—
But the lad plied his chalk,
And muttered strange talk—
Till Grist drew his stool from the table!
Then the lad quenched the rush,
And cried, "Bring a gorse-bush,
And under the caldron now kindle!"—
But the Miller cried, "Nay!
Give over, I pray!"—
For his courage began fast to dwindle.
Quoth the lad, "I must on
Till my conjuring's done;
To break off just now would be ruin:
So fetch me the thorns,—
And a devil without horns,
In the copper I soon will be brewing!"—
O the Miller he shook
For fear his strange cook
Should, indeed and in truth, prove successful;
But feeling ashamed
That his pluck should be blamed,
Strove to smother his heart-quake distressful.
So the fuel he brought,
And said he feared nought
Of the Devil being brewed in his copper:
He'd as quickly believe
Nick would sit in his sieve,
Or dance 'mong the wheat in his hopper:—
And yet, lest strange ill,
From such conjuring skill,
Should arise, and their souls be in danger,—
He would have his crab-stick,
And would show my lord Nick
Some tricks to which he was a stranger!
O the lad 'gan to raise
'Neath the caldron a blaze,—
While the Miller, his crab-cudgel grasping,
Stood on watch, for his life!—
But his terrified wife
Her hands—in devotion—was clasping!
When the copper grew warm,
Quoth the lad, "Lest some harm
From the visit of Nick be betiding,—
Set open the door,
And not long on the floor
Will the Goblin of Hell be abiding!"
Quickly so did the host,
And returned to his post,—
Uplifting his cudgel with trembling:—
His strength was soon proved,—
For the copper-lid moved!—
When Grist's fears grew too big for dissembling.
Turning white as the wall,
His staff he let fall,—
While the Devil from the caldron ascended,—
And, all on a heap,—
With a flying leap,
On the fear-stricken Miller descended!
In dread lest his soul,
In the Devil's foul goal,
Should be burnt to a spiritual cinder,—
Grist grabbed the Fiend's throat,
And his grisly eyes smote,—
Till Nick's face seemed a platter of tinder!
Yea, with many a thwack,
Grist battered Nick's back,—
Nor spared Satan's portly abdomen!—
Hot Nick had lain cold
By this time—but his hold
Grist lost, through the screams of his woman!
While up from the floor,
And out, at the door,
Went the Fiend, with the skip of a dancer!
He seemed panic-struck,—
Or, doubted his luck,—
For he neither staid question nor answer!
"Grist!" the beggar-lad cried,
"Lay your trembling aside,
And tell me, my man, how ye like him.
'Twas well ye were cool:
He'd have proved ye a fool,—
Had ye dar'd with the cudgel to strike him!"
"By saint Martin!" Grist said,
And, scratching his head,
Seemed pondering between good and evil,—
"I could swear and avouch
'Twas the Prior of Roche,—
If thou hadst not said 'twas the Devil!"
And, in deed and in sooth,—
Though a marvellous truth,—
Yet such was the Fiend's revelation!—
But think it not strange
He should choose such a change:—
'Tis much after his old occupation:—
An angel of light,
'Tis his darling delight
To be reckoned—'tis very well tested:—
I argue, therefore,
'Twas not sinning much more,
In the garb of a Prior to be vested.
Though, with wink, nod, and smile—
O the world's very vile!—
Grist's neighbours told tales unbelieving,—
How the beggar, so shrewd,
Monk and supper had viewed,
And produced 'em!—the Miller deceiving!
But I do not belong
To that heretic throng
Who measure their faith with their eyesight:—
Thus much I may say—
Grist's cottage of clay
Never, now, doth the Prior of Roche visit:—
But, the sly beggar-lad,
Be he hungry or sad,
A remedy finds for each evil
In the Miller's good cheer,
Any day of the year;—
And though Joan looketh shy—she is civil!
————
The tale was rude, but pleased rude men;
And clamorous many a clown grew, when
The rebeck ceased to thrill:
Ploughboy and neatherd, shepherd swain,
Gosherd and swineherd,—all were fain
To prove their tuneful skill.
But, now, Sir Wilfrid waved his hand,
And gently stilled the jarring band:
"What ho!" he cried, "what ails your throats?
Be these your most melodious notes?
Forget ye that to-morrow morn
Old Yule-day and its sports return,—
And that your freres, from scrogg and carr,[13]
From heath and wold, and fen, afar,
Will come to join ye in your glee?
Husband your mirth and minstrelsy,
And let some goodly portion be
Kept for their entertainment meet.
Meanwhile, let frolic guide your feet,
And warm your winter blood!
Good night to all!—For His dear sake
Who bore our sin, if well we wake,
We'll join to banish care and sorrow
With mirth and sport again to-morrow!"
And forth the Baron good
Passed from his chair, midst looks of love
That showed how truly was enwove
Full, free, and heartfelt gratitude
For kindly deeds, in bosoms rude.
The broad hall-doors were open cast,
And, smiling, forth De Thorold passed.
Yet, was the crowning hour unflown—
Enjoyment's crowning hour!—
A signal note the pipe hath blown,
And a maiden at the door
Craves curtsied leave, with roseate blush,
To bring the sacred missel-bush.
Gaily a younker leads the fair,
Proud of his dimpled, blushing care:
All clap their hands, both old and young,
And soon the misseltoe is hung
In the mid-rafters, overhead;
And, while the agile dance they thread,
Such honey do the plough-lads seize
From lips of lasses as the bees
Ne'er sip from sweetest flowers of May.
All in the rapture of their play,—
While shrilly swells the mirthsome pipe,
And merrily their light feet trip,—
Leave we the simple happy throng
Their mirth and rapture to prolong.
THE
BARON'S YULE FEAST.
A
Christmas Rhyme.
Canto III.
Mirth-verse from thee, rude leveller!
Of late, thy dungeon-harpings were
Of discontent and wrong;
And we, the Privileged, were banned
For cumber-grounds of fatherland,
In thy drear prison-song.
What fellowship hast thou with times
When love-thralled minstrels chaunted rhymes
At feast, in feudal hall,—
And peasant churls, a saucy crew,
Fantastic o'er their wassail grew,
Forgetful of their thrall?—
Lordlings, your scorn awhile forbear,—
And with the homely Past compare
Your tinselled show and state!
Mark, if your selfish grandeurs cold
On human hearts so firm a hold
For ye, and yours, create
As they possessed, whose breasts though rude
Glowed with the warmth of brotherhood
For all who toiled, through youth and age,
T' enrich their force-won heritage!
Mark, if ye feel your swollen pride
Secure, ere ye begin to chide!
Then, lordlings, though ye may discard
The measures I rehearse,
Slight not the lessons of the bard—
The moral of his verse.—
But we will dare thy verse to chide!
Wouldst re-enact the Barmecide,
And taunt our wretchedness
With visioned feast, and song, and dance,—
While, daily, our grim heritance
Is famine and distress?
Hast thou forgot thy pledges stern,
Never from Suffering's cause to turn,
But—to the end of life—
Against Oppression's ruthless band
Still unsubduable to stand,
A champion in the strife?
Think'st thou we suffer less, or feel
To-day's soul-piercing wounds do heal
The wounds of months and years?
Or that our eyes so long have been
Familiar with the hunger keen
Our babes endure, we gaze serene—
Strangers to scalding tears?—
Ah no! my brothers, not from me
Hath faded solemn memory
Of all your bitter grief:
This heart its pledges doth renew—
To its last pulse it will be true
To beat for your relief.
My rhymes are trivial, but my aim
Deem ye not purposeless:
I would the homely truth proclaim—
That times which knaves full loudly blame
For feudal haughtiness
Would put the grinding crew to shame
Who prey on your distress.
O that my simple lay might tend
To kindle some remorse
In your oppressors' souls, and bend
Their wills a cheerful help to lend
And lighten Labour's curse!
————
A night of snow the earth hath clad
With virgin mantle chill;
But in the sky the sun looks glad,—
And blythely o'er the hill,
From fen and wold, troops many a guest
To sing and smile at Thorold's feast.
And oft they bless the bounteous sun
That smileth on the snow;
And oft they bless the generous one
Their homes that bids them fro
To glad their hearts with merry cheer,
When Yule returns, in winter drear.
How joyously the lady bells
Shout—though the bluff north-breeze
Loudly his boisterous bugle swells!
And though the brooklets freeze,
How fair the leafless hawthorn-tree
Waves with its hoar-frost tracery!
While sun-smiles throw o'er stalks and stems
Sparkles so far transcending gems—
The bard would gloze who said their sheen
Did not out-diamond
All brightest gauds that man hath seen
Worn by earth's proudest king or queen,
In pomp and grandeur throned!
Saint Leonard's monks have chaunted mass,
And clown's and gossip's laughing face
Is turned unto the porch,—
For now comes mime and motley fool,
Guarding the dizened Lord Misrule
With mimic pomp and march;
And the burly Abbot of Unreason
Forgets not that the blythe Yule season
Demands his paunch at church;
And he useth his staff
While the rustics laugh,—
And, still, as he layeth his crosier about,
Laugheth aloud each clownish lowt,—
And the lowt, as he laugheth, from corbels grim,
Sees carven apes ever laughing at him!
Louder and wilder the merriment grows,
For the hobby-horse comes, and his rider he throws!
And the dragon's roar,
As he paweth the floor,
And belcheth fire
In his demon ire,
When the Abbot the monster takes by the nose,
Stirreth a tempest of uproar and din—
Yet none surmiseth the joke is a sin—
For the saints, from the windows, in purple and gold,
With smiles, say the gossips, Yule games behold;
And, at Christmas, the Virgin all divine
Smileth on sport, from her silver shrine!
"Come forth, come forth! it is high noon,"
Cries Hugh the seneschal;
"My masters, will ye ne'er have done?
Come forth unto the hall!"—
'Tis high Yule-tide in Torksey hall:
Full many a trophy bedecks the wall
Of prowess in field and wood;
Blent with the buckler and grouped with the spear
Hang tusks of the boar, and horns of the deer—
But De Thorold's guests beheld nought there
That scented of human blood.
The mighty wassail horn suspended
From the tough yew-bow, at Hastings bended,
With wreaths of bright holly and ivy bound,
Were perches for falcons that shrilly screamed,
While their look with the lightning of anger gleamed,
As they chided the fawning of mastiff and hound,
That crouched at the feet of each peasant guest,
And asked, with their eyes, to share the feast.
Sir Wilfrid's carven chair of state
'Neath the dais is gently elevate,—
But his smile bespeaks no lordly pride:
Sweet Edith sits by her loved sire's side,
And five hundred guests, some free, some thrall,
Sit by the tables along the wide hall,
Each with his platter, and stout drink-horn,—
They count on good cheer this Christmas morn!
Not long they wait, not long they wish—
The trumpet peals,—and the kingly dish,—
The head of the brawny boar,
Decked with rosemary and laurels gay,—
Upstarting, they welcome, with loud huzza,
As their fathers did, of yore!
And they point to the costard he bears in his mouth,
And vow the huge pig,
So luscious a fig,
Would not gather to grunch in the daintiful South!
Strike up, strike up, a louder chime,
Ye minstrels in the loft!
Strike up! it is no fitting time
For drowsy strains and soft,—
When sewers threescore
Have passed the hall door,
And the tables are laden with roast and boiled,
And carvers are hasting, lest all should be spoiled;
And gossips' tongues clatter
More loudly than platter,
And tell of their marvel to reckon the sorts:—
Ham by fat capon, and beef by green worts;
Ven'son from forest, and mutton from fold;
Brawn from the oak-wood, and hare from the wold;
Wild-goose from fen, and tame from the lea;
And plumëd dish from the heronry—
With choicest apples 'twas featly rimmed,
And stood next the flagons with malmsey brimmed,—
Near the knightly swan, begirt with quinces,
Which the gossips said was a dish for princes,—
Though his place was never to stand before
The garnished head of the royal boar!
Puddings of plumbs and mince-pies, placed
In plenty along the board, met taste
Of gossip and maiden,—nor did they fail
To sip, now and then, of the double brown ale—
That ploughman and shepherd vowed and sware
Was each drop so racy, and sparkling, and rare—
No outlandish Rhenish could with it compare!
Trow ye they stayed till the meal was done
To pledge a health? Degenerate son
Of friendly sires! a health thrice-told
Each guest had pledged to fellowships old,—
Untarrying eager mouth to wipe,
And across the board with hearty gripe
Joining rough hands,—ere the meal was o'er:—
Hearts and hands went with "healths" in the days of yore!
The meal is o'er,—though the time of mirth,
Each brother feels, is but yet in its birth:—
"Wassail, wassail!" the seneschal cries;
And the spicy bowl rejoiceth all eyes,
When before the baron beloved 'tis set,
And he dippeth horn, and thus doth greet
The honest hearts around him met:—
"Health to ye all, my brothers good!
All health and happiness!
Health to the absent of our blood!
May Heaven the suffering bless,—
And cheer their hearts who lie at home
In pain, now merry Yule hath come!
My jolly freres, all health!"
The shout is loud and long,—but tears
Glide quickly from some eyes, while ears
List whispering sounds of stealth
That tell how the noble Thorold hath sent,
To palsied widow and age-stricken hind,
Clothing and food, and brother-words kind,—
Cheering their aching languishment!
"Wassail, wassail!" Sir Wilfrid saith,—
"Push round the brimming bowl!—
Art thou there, minstrel?—By my faith,
All list to hear thee troll,
Again, some goodly love-lorn verse!—
Begin thy ditty to rehearse,
And take, for guerdon, wishes blythe—
Less thou wilt take red gold therewith!"
Red gold the minstrel saith he scorneth,—
But, now the merry Yule returneth,
For love of Him whom angels sung,
And love of one his burning tongue
Is fain to name, but may not tell,—
Once more, unto the harp's sweet swell,
A knightly chanson he will sing,—
And, straight, he struck the throbbing string.