So he the kingdom has resigned,
And he has crowned the knight of fame;
And dales and downs and England’s towns
Thus subject to the knight became.
Now has Sir Thunye all achieved,
And now to joy may his heart resign;
He rules by day old England gay,
And sleeps at night with his Ermeline.
A King more powerful there is none
Than he, the flower of chivalry;
The knights, they say, of Sweden pray
He never more their guest may be.
THE CUCKOO’S SONG IN MERION.
From the Welsh of Lewis Morris.
Though it has been my fate to see
Of gallant countries many a one;
Good ale, and those that drank it free,
And wine in streams that seemed to run;
The best of beer, the best of cheer,
Allotted are to Merion.
The swarthy ox will drag his chain,
At man’s commandment that is done;
His furrow break through earth with pain,
Up hill and hillock toiling on;
Yet with more skill draw hearts at will
The maids of county Merion.
Merry the life, it must be owned,
Upon the hills of Merion;
Though chill and drear the prospect round,
Delight and joy are not unknown;
O who would e’er expect to hear
’Mid mountain bogs the cuckoo’s tone?
O who display a mien full fair,
A wonder each to look upon?
And who in every household care
Defy compare below the sun?
And who make mad each sprightly lad?
The maids of county Merion.
O fair the salmon in the flood,
That over golden sands doth run;
And fair the thrush in his abode,
That spreads his wings in gladsome fun;
More beauteous look, if truth be spoke,
The maids of county Merion.
Dear to the little birdies wild
Their freedom in the forest lone;
Dear to the little sucking child
The nurse’s breast it hangs upon;
Though long I wait, I ne’er can state
How dear to me is Merion.