Reliques of Ancient English Poetry consisting of Old Heroic Ballads, Songs, and other Pieces of our earlier Poets, (Chiefly of the Lyric kind.) Together with some few of later Date |
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Reliques of Ancient English Poetry | ||
IV. SIR CAULINE.
This old romantic tale was preserved in the Editor's folio MS, but in so defective and mutilated a condition that it was necessary to supply several stanzas in the first part, and still more in the second, to connect and compleat the story.
There is something peculiar in the metre of this old ballad: it is not unusual to meet with redundant stanzas of six lines; but the occasional insertion of a double third or fourth line, as ver. 31, 44, &c. is an irregularity I do not remember to have seen elsewhere.
It may be proper to inform the reader before he comes to Pt. 2. v. 110, 111. that the round table was not peculiar to the reign of K. Arthur, but was common in all the ages of Chivalry. The proclaiming a great turnament (probably with some peculiar solemnities) was called “holding a Round Table.” Dugdale tells us, that the great baron Roger de Mortimer “having procured the honour of knighthood to be conferred ‘on his three sons’ by K. Edw. I. he, at his own costs, caused a tourneament to be held at Kenilworth; where he sumptuously entertained an hundred knights, and as many ladies for three days; the like whereof was never before in England; and there began the round table, (so called by reason that the place wherein they practised those feats, was environed with a strong wall made in a round form:) And upon the fourth day, the golden lion, in sign of triumph, being yielded to him; he carried it (with all the company) to Warwick.”—It may further be added, that Matthew Paris frequently calls justs and turnaments Hasti Iudia Mensæ Rotundæ.
As to what will be observed in this ballad of the art of healing being practised by a young princess; it is no more than what is usual in all the old romances, and was conformable to real manners; it being a practice derived from the earliest times among all the Gothic and Celtic nations, for [illeg.]men, even of the highest rank, to exercise the art of surgery. In the Northern Chronicles we always find the young damsels stanching the wounds of their lovers, and the wives those of their husbands . And even so late as the time of Q. Elizabeth, it is mentioned among the accomplishments of the ladies of her court, that the “eldest of them are skilful in surgery.”
The First Part.
There dwelleth a bonnye kinge;
And with him a yong and comlye knighte,
Men call him syr Caulìne.
In fashyon she hath no peere;
And princely wightes that ladye wooed
To be theyr wedded feere.
But nothing durst he saye;
Ne descreeve his counsayl to no man,
But deerlye he lovde this may.
Great dill to him was dight;
The maydens love removde his mynd,
To care-bed went the knighte.
One while he spred them nye:
And aye! but I winne that ladyes love,
For dole now I mun dye.
Our kinge was bowne to dyne:
That is wont to serve the wyne?
And fast his handes gan wringe:
Sir Cauline is sicke, and like to dye
Without a good leechìnge.
She is a leeche fulle fine:
Goe take him doughe, and the baken bread,
And serve him with the wyne soe red;
Lothe I were him to tine.
Her maydens followyng nye:
O well, she sayth, how doth my lord?
O sicke, thou fayr ladyè.
Never lye soe cowardlee;
For it is told in my fathers halle,
You dye for love of mee.
That all this dill I drye:
For if you wold comfort me with a kisse,
Then were I brought from bale to blisse,
No lenger wold I lye.
I am his onlye heire;
Alas! and well you knowe, syr knighte,
I never can be youre fere.
And I am not thy peere,
But let me doe some deedes of armes
To be your bacheleere.
My bacheleere to bee,
(But ever and aye my heart wold rue,
Giff harm shold happe to thee,)
Upon the mores brodìnge;
And dare ye, syr knighte, wake there all nighte
Untill the fayre mornìnge?
Will examine you beforne:
And never man bare life awaye,
But he did him scath and scorne.
And large of limb and bone;
And but if heaven may be thy speede,
Thy life it is but gone.
For thy sake, fair ladìe;
And Ile either bring you a ready tokèn,
Or Ile never more you see.
Her maydens following bright:
Syr Cauline lope from care-bed soone,
And to the Eldridge hills is gone,
For to wake there all night.
He walked up and downe;
Then a lightsome bugle heard he blowe
Over the bents soe browne:
Quoth hee, If cryance come till my heart,
I am ffar from any good towne.
A furyous wight and fell;
A ladye bright his brydle led,
Clad in a fayre kyrtèll:
O man, I rede thee flye,
For ‘but’ if cryance come till thy heart,
I weene but thou mun dye.
Nor, in faith, I wyll not flee;
For, cause thou minged not Christ before,
The less me dreadeth thee.
Syr Cauline bold abode:
Then either shooke his trustye speare,
And the timber these two children bare
Soe soone in sunder slode.
And layden on full faste,
Till helme and hawberke, mail and sheelde,
They all were well-nye brast.
And stiffe in stower did stande,
But syr Cauline with a ‘backward’ stroke,
He smote off his right-hand;
That soone he with paine and lacke of bloud
Fell downe on that lay-land.
All over his head so hye:
And here I sweare by the holy roode,
Nowe, caytiffe, thou shalt dye.
Faste wringing of her hande:
For the maydens love, that most you love,
Withold that deadlye brande.
Now smyte no more I praye;
And aye whatever thou wilt, my lord,
He shall thy hests obaye.
And here on this lay-land,
That thou wilt believe on Christ his laye,
And therto plight thy hand:
To sporte, gamon, or playe:
And that thou here give up thy armes
Until thy dying daye.
With many a sorrowfulle sighe;
And sware to obey syr Caulines hest,
Till the tyme that he shold dye.
Sett him in his saddle anone,
And the Eldridge knighte and his ladye
To theyr castle are they gone.
That was so large of bone,
And on it he founde five ringes of gold
Of knightes that had be slone.
As hard as any flint:
And he tooke off those ringès five,
As bright as fyre and brent.
As light as leafe on tree:
I-wys he neither stint ne blanne,
Till he his ladye see.
Before that lady gay:
O ladye, I have bin on the Eldridge hills;
These tokens I bring away.
Thrice welcome unto mee,
For now I perceive thou art a true knighte,
Of valour bolde and free.
Thy hests for to obaye:
And mought I hope to winne thy love!—
Ne more his tonge colde say.
And fette a gentill sighe:
Alas! syr knight, how may this bee,
For my degree's soe highe?
To be my batchilere,
Ile promise if thee I may not wedde
I will have none other fere.
Towards that knighte so free:
He gave to it one gentill kisse,
His heart was brought from bale to blisse,
The teares sterte from his ee.
Ne let no man it knowe;
For and ever my father sholde it ken,
I wot he wolde us sloe.
Lovde syr Caulìne the knighte:
From that daye forthe he only joyde
Whan shee was in his sight.
Within a fayre arbòure,
Where they in love and sweet daliaunce
Past manye a pleasaunt houre.
In this conclusion of the First Part, and at the beginning of the Second, the reader will observe a resemblance to the story of Sigismunda and Guiscard, as told by Boccace and Dryden: See the latter's Description of the Lovers meeting in the Cave, and those beautiful lines, which contain a reflection so like this of our poet, “everye white, &c. viz.
“And tides at highest mark regorge their flood;
“So Fate, that could no more improve their joy,
“Took a malicious pleasure to destroy.
“Tancred, who fondly loved, &c.”
Part the Second.
And everye sweete its sowre:
This founde the ladye Christabelle
In an untimely howre.
Was with that ladye faire,
The kinge her father walked forthe
To take the evenyng aire:
To rest his wearye feet,
Theresette in daliaunce sweet.
And an angrye man was hee:
Nowe, traytoure, thou shalt hange or drawe,
And rewe shall thy ladìe.
And throwne in dungeon deepe:
And the ladye into a towre so hye,
There left to wayle and weepe.
And to the kinge sayd shee:
I praye you save syr Caulines life,
And let him banisht bee.
Across the salt sea some:
But here I will make thee a band,
If ever he come within this land,
A foule deathe is his doome.
To parte from his ladyè;
And many a time he sighed sore,
And cast a wistfulle eye:
Farre lever had I dye.
Was had forthe of the towre;
But ever shee droopeth in her minde,
As nipt by an ungentle winde
Doth some faire lillye flowre.
To tint her lover soe:
Syr Cauline, thou little think'st on mee,
But I will still be true.
And lords of high degree,
Did sue to that fayre ladye of love;
But never shee wolde them nee.
Ne comforte she colde finde,
The kynge proclaimed a tourneament,
To cheere his daughters mind:
Fro manye a farre countryè,
To break a spere for theyr ladyes love
Before that faire ladyè.
In purple and in palle:
But faire Christabelle soe woe-begone
Was the fayrest of them all.
Before his ladye gaye;
But a stranger wight, whom no man knewe,
He wan the prize eche daye.
His hewberke, and his sheelde,
Ne noe man wist whence he did come,
Ne noe man knewe where he did gone,
When they came out the feelde.
In feates of chivalrye,
When lo upon the fourth mornìnge
A sorrowfulle sight they see.
All foule of limbe and lere;
Two goggling eyen like fire farden,
A mouthe from eare to eare.
That waited on his knee,
And at his backe five heads he bare,
All wan and pale of blee.
Behold that hend Soldàin!
Behold these heads I beare with me!
They are kings which he hath slain.
Whom a knight of thine hath shent:
And hee is come to avenge his wrong,
And to thee, all thy knightes among,
Defiance here hath sent.
Thy daughters love to winne:
And but thou yeelde him that fayre mayd,
Thy halls and towers must brenne.
Or else thy daughter deere;
Or else within these lists soe broad
Thou must finde him a peere.
And in his heart was woe:
Is there never a knighte of my round tablè,
This matter will undergoe?
Will fight for my daughter and mee?
Whoever will fight yon grimme soldàn,
Right fair his meede shall bee.
And of my crowne be heyre;
And he shall winne fayre Christabelle
To be his wedded fere.
Did stand both still and pale;
For whenever they lookt on the grim soldàn,
It made their hearts to quail.
When she sawe no helpe was nye:
She cast her thought on her owne true-love,
And the teares gusht from her eye.
Sayd, Ladye, be not affrayd:
Ile fight for thee with this grimme soldàn,
Thoughe he be unmacklye made.
That lyeth within thy bowre,
I truste in Christe for to slay this fiende
Thoughe he be stiff in stowre.
The kinge he cryde, with speede:
Nowe heaven assist thee, courteous knighte;
My daughter is thy meede.
And sayd, Awaye, awaye:
I sweare, as I am the hend soldàn,
Thou lettest me here all daye.
In his blacke armoure dight:
The ladye sighed a gentle sighe,
“That this were my true knighte!”
Within the lists soe broad;
And now with swordes soe sharpe of steele,
They gan to lay on load.
That made him reele asyde;
Then woe-begone was that fayre ladyè,
And thrice she deeply sighde.
And made the bloude to flowe:
All pale and wan was that ladye fayre,
And thrice she wept for woe.
Which brought the knighte on his knee:
Sad sorrow pierced that ladyes heart,
And she shriekt loud shriekings three.
All recklesse of the pain:
Quoth hee, But heaven he now my speede,
Or else I shall be slaine.
And spying a secrette part,
He drave it into the soldan's syde,
And pierced him to the heart.
Whan they sawe the soldan falle:
The ladye wept, and thanked Christ,
That had reskewed her from thrall.
Rose uppe from offe his seate,
And downe he stepped intò the listes,
That curteous knighte to greete.
Was fallen intò a swounde,
And there all walteringe in his gore,
Lay lifelesse on the grounde.
Thou art a leeche of skille;
Farre lever had I lose halfe my landes,
Than this good knighte sholde spille.
To helpe him if she maye;
But when she did his beavere raise,
It is my life, my lord, she sayes,
And shriekte and swound awaye.
When he heard his ladye crye,
O ladye, I am thine owne true love.
For thee I wisht to dye.
He closed his eyes in death,
Ere Christabelle, that ladye milde,
Begane to drawe her breathe.
Indeed was dead and gone,
She layde her pale cold cheeke to his,
And thus she made her moane.
For mee thy faithfulle feere;
'Tis meet that I shold followe thee,
Who hast bought my love soe deare.
And with a deepe-fette sighe,
That burst her gentle hearte in twayne,
Fayre Christabelle did dye.
Reliques of Ancient English Poetry | ||