“I’ve come, Sir Knave, to see
The master of these halls:
A maid unwillingly
Lies prisoned in their walls.”’
With barely stifled sigh
That porter drooped his head,
With teardrops in his eye,
“A many, sir,” he said.
He stayed to hear no more,
But pushed that porter by,
And shortly stood before
Sir Hugh de Peckham Rye.
Sir Hugh he darkly frowned,
“What would you, sir, with me?”
The troubadour he downed
Upon his bended knee.
“I’ve come, de Peckham Rye,
To do a Christian task;
You ask me what would I?
It is not much I ask.
“Release these maidens, sir,
Whom you dominion o’er—
Particularly her
Upon the second floor.
“And if you don’t, my lord”—
He here stood bolt upright,
And tapped a tailor’s sword—
“Come out, you cad, and fight!”
Sir Hugh he called—and ran
The warden from the gate:
“Go, show this gentleman
The maid in Forty-eight.”
By many a cell they past,
And stopped at length before
A portal, bolted fast:
The man unlocked the door.
He called inside the gate
With coarse and brutal shout,
“Come, step it, Forty-eight!”
And Forty-eight stepped out.