Since on that Christmas-day last year
Up to your feet the fire crept,
And the smoke through the brown leaves sere
Blinded your dear eyes that you wept;
Was it not I that caught you then,
And kiss'd you on the saddle-bow?
Did not the blue owl mark the men
Whose spears stood like the corn a-row?
This Oliver is a right good knight,
And must needs beat me, as I fear,
Unless I catch him in the fight,
My father's crafty way: John, here!
Bring up the men from the south gate,
To help me if I fall or win,
For even if I beat, their hate
Will grow to more than this mere grin.
THE LITTLE TOWER
UP and away through the drifting rain!
Let us ride to the Little Tower again,
Up and away from the council board!
Do on the hauberk, gird on the sword.
The king is blind with gnashing his teeth,
Change gilded scabbard to leather sheath: