The Gosherd's Song.
'Tis a tale of merry Lincolnshire
I've heard my grannam tell;
And I'll tell it to you, my masters, here,
An' it likes you all, full well.
A Gosherd on Croyland fen, one day,
Awoke, in haste, from slumber;
And on counting his geese, to his sad dismay,
He found there lacked one of the number.
O the Gosherd looked west, and he looked east,
And he looked before and behind him;
And his eye from north to south he cast
For the gander—but couldn't find him!
So the Gosherd he drave his geese to the cote,
And began, forthwith, to wander
Over the marshy wild remote,
In search of the old stray gander.
O the Gosherd he wandered till twilight gray
Was throwing its mists around him;
But the gander seemed farther and farther astray—
For the Gosherd had not yet found him.
So the Gosherd, foredeeming his search in vain,
Resolved no farther to wander;
But to Croyland he turned him, in dudgeon, again,
Sore fretting at heart for the gander.
Thus he footed the fens so dreary and dern,
While his brain, like the sky, was dark'ning;
And with dread to the scream o' the startled hern
And the bittern's boom he was heark'ning.
But when the Gosherd the church-yard reached,—
Forefearing the dead would be waking,—
Like a craven upon the sward he stretched,
And could travel no farther for quaking!
And there the Gosherd lay through the night,
Not daring to rise and go further:
For, in sooth, the Gosherd beheld a sight
That frighted him more than murther!
From the old church clock the midnight hour
In hollow tones was pealing,
When a slim white ghost to the church porch door
Seemed up the footpath stealing!
Stark staring upon the sward lay the clown,
And his heart went "pitter patter,"—
Till the ghost in the clay-cold grave sunk down,—
When he felt in a twitter-twatter!
Soon—stretching aloft its long white arms—
From the grave the ghost was peeping!—
Cried the Gosherd, "Our Lady defend me from harms,
And Saint Guthlacke[15] have me in his keeping!"
The white ghost hissed!—the Gosherd swooned!
In the morn,—on the truth 'tis no slander,—
Near the church porch door a new grave he found,
And, therein, the white ghost—his stray gander!
————
The Gosherd, scarce, his mirthful meed
Had won, ere Tibbald of Stow,—
With look as pert as the pouncing glede
When he eyeth the chick below,—
Scraped his crowd,
And clear and loud,
As the merle-cock shrill,
Or the bell from the hill,
Thus tuned his throat to his rough sire's praise—
His sire the swineherd of olden days:—
The Swineherd's Song.
I sing of a swineherd, in Lindsey, so bold,
Who tendeth his flock in the wide forest-fold:
He sheareth no wool from his snouted sheep:
He soweth no corn, and none he doth reap:
Yet the swineherd no lack of good living doth know:
Come jollily trowl
The brown round bowl,
Like the jovial swineherd of Stow!
He hedgeth no meadows to fatten his swine:
He renteth no joist for his snorting kine:
They rove through the forest, and browse on the mast,—
Yet, he lifteth his horn, and bloweth a blast,
And they come at his call, blow he high, blow he low!—
Come, jollily trowl
The brown round bowl,
And drink to the swineherd of Stow!
He shunneth the heat 'mong the fern-stalks green,—
Or dreameth of elves 'neath the forest treen:
He wrappeth him up when the oak leaves sere
And the ripe acorns fall, at the wane o' the year;
And he tippleth at Yule, by the log's cheery glow.—
Come, jollily trowl
The brown round bowl,
And pledge the bold swineherd of Stow!
The bishop he passeth the swineherd in scorn,—
Yet, to mass wends the swineherd at Candlemas morn;
And he offereth his horn, at our Lady's hymn,
With bright silver pennies filled up to the brim:—
Saith the bishop, "A very good fellow, I trow!"—
Come, jollily trowl
The brown round bowl,
And honour the swineherd of Stow!
And now the brave swineherd, in stone, ye may spy,
Holding his horn, on the Minster so high!—
But the swineherd he laugheth, and cracketh his joke,
With his pig-boys that vittle beneath the old oak,—
Saying, "Had I no pennies, they'd make me no show!"—
Come, jollily trowl
The brown round bowl,
And laugh with the swineherd of Stow![16]
————
So merrily the chorus rose,—
For every guest chimed in,—
That, had the dead been there to doze,
They had surely waked with the din!—
So the rustics said while their brains were mellow;
And all called the swineherd "a jolly good fellow!"
"Come, hearty Snell!" said the Baron good;
"What sayest thou more of the merry greenwood?"
"I remember no lay of the forest, now,"—
Said Snell, with a glance at three maids in a row;
"Belike, I could whimper a love-lorn ditty,—
If Tib, Doll, and Bell, would listen with pity!"
"Then chaunt us thy love-song!" cried Baron and guests;
And Snell, looking shrewd, obeyed their behests.
The Woodman's Love Song.
Along the meads a simple maid
One summer's day a musing strayed,
And, as the cowslips sweet she pressed,
This burthen to the breeze confessed—
I fear that I'm in love!
For, ever since so playfully
Young Robin trod this path with me,
I always feel more happy here
Than ever I have felt elsewhere:—
I fear that I'm in love!
And, ever since young Robin talked
So sweetly, while alone we walked,
Of truth, and faith, and constancy,
I've wished he always walked with me:—
I fear that I'm in love!
And, ever since that pleasing night
When, 'neath the lady moon's fair light,
He asked my hand, but asked in vain,
I've wished he'd walk, and ask again:—
I fear that I'm in love!
And yet, I greatly fear, alas!
That wish will ne'er be brought to pass!—
What else to fear I cannot tell:—
I hope that all will yet be well—
But, surely, I'm in love!
————
Coy was their look, but true their pleasure,
While the maidens listed the woodman's measure;
Nor shrunk they at laughter of herdsman or hind,
But mixed with the mirth, and still looked kind.
One maid there was who faintly smiled,
But never joined their laughter:
And why, by Yule-mirth unbeguiled,
Sits the Baron's beauteous daughter?
Why looks she downcast, yet so sweet,
And seeketh no eyes with mirth to greet?
"My darling Edith,—hast no song?"
Saith Thorold, tenderly;
"Our guests have tarried to hear thee, long,
And looked with wistful eye!"
Soft words the peerless damosel
Breathes of imperfect skill:
"Sweet birds," smiles the Baron, "all know—right well,
Can sweetly sing an' they will."
And the stranger minstrel, on his knee,
Offers his harp, with courtesy
So rare and gentle, that the hall
Rings with applause which one and all
Render who share the festival.
De Thorold smiled; and the maiden took
The harp, with grace in act and look,—
But waked its echoes tremulously,—
Singing no noisy jubilee,—
But a chanson of sweetly stifled pain—
So sweet—when ended all were fain
To hear her chaunt it o'er again.