A Selection from the Works of Frederick Locker With illustrations by Richard Doyle |
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THE LEGENDE OF SIR GYLES GYLES. |
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 | A Selection from the Works of Frederick Locker |  |
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THE LEGENDE OF SIR GYLES GYLES.
Notissimum illud Phædri, Gallus quum tauro.
Uppe, lazie loon! 'tis mornynge prime,
The cockke of redde redde combe
This thrice hath crowed—'tis past the time
To drive the olde bulle home.
The cockke of redde redde combe
This thrice hath crowed—'tis past the time
To drive the olde bulle home.
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Goe fling a rope about his hornnes,
And lead him safelie here:
Long since Sir Gyles, who slumber scornes,
Doth angle in the weir.
And lead him safelie here:
Long since Sir Gyles, who slumber scornes,
Doth angle in the weir.
And, knaves and wenches, stay your din,
Our Ladye is astir:
For hark and hear her mandolin
Behynde the silver fir.
Our Ladye is astir:
For hark and hear her mandolin
Behynde the silver fir.
His Spanish hat he bravelie weares,
With feathere droopynge wide,
In doublet fyne, Sir Valentyne
Is seated by her side.
With feathere droopynge wide,
In doublet fyne, Sir Valentyne
Is seated by her side.
Small care they share, that blissfulle pair;
She dons her kindest smyles;
His songes invite and quite delighte
The wyfe of old Sir Gyles.
She dons her kindest smyles;
His songes invite and quite delighte
The wyfe of old Sir Gyles.
But pert young pages point their thumbes,
Her maids look glumme, in shorte
All wondere how the good Knyghte comes
To tarrie at his sporte.
Her maids look glumme, in shorte
All wondere how the good Knyghte comes
To tarrie at his sporte.
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There is a sudden stir at last;
Men run—and then, with dread,
They vowe Sir Gyles is dying fast!
And then—Sir Gyles is dead!
Men run—and then, with dread,
They vowe Sir Gyles is dying fast!
And then—Sir Gyles is dead!
The bulle hath caughte him near the thornes
They call the Parsonne's Plotte;
The bulle hath tossed him on his hornnes,
Before the brute is shotte.
They call the Parsonne's Plotte;
The bulle hath tossed him on his hornnes,
Before the brute is shotte.
Now Ladye Gyles is sorelie tryd,
And sinks beneath the shockke:
She weeps from morn to eventyd,
And then till crowe of cockke.
And sinks beneath the shockke:
She weeps from morn to eventyd,
And then till crowe of cockke.
Again the sun returns, but though
The merrie morninge smiles,
No cockke will crow, no bulle will low
Agen for pore Sir Gyles.
The merrie morninge smiles,
No cockke will crow, no bulle will low
Agen for pore Sir Gyles.
And now the knyghte, as seemeth beste,
Is layd in hallowed mould;
All in the mynstere crypt, where rest
His gallant sires and old.
Is layd in hallowed mould;
All in the mynstere crypt, where rest
His gallant sires and old.
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But first they take the olde bulle's skin
And crest, to form a shroud:
And when Sir Gyles is wrapped therein
His people wepe aloud.
And crest, to form a shroud:
And when Sir Gyles is wrapped therein
His people wepe aloud.
Sir Valentyne doth well incline
To soothe my lady's woe;
And soon she'll slepe, nor ever wepe,
An all the cockkes sholde crowe.
To soothe my lady's woe;
And soon she'll slepe, nor ever wepe,
An all the cockkes sholde crowe.
Ay soone they are in wedlock tied,
Full soon; and all, in fyne,
That spouse can say to chere his bride,
That sayth Sir Valentyne.
Full soon; and all, in fyne,
That spouse can say to chere his bride,
That sayth Sir Valentyne.
And gay agen are maids and men,
Nor knyghte nor ladye mournes,
Though Valentyne may trembel when
He sees a bulle with hornnes.
Nor knyghte nor ladye mournes,
Though Valentyne may trembel when
He sees a bulle with hornnes.
My wife and I once visited
The scene of all this woe,
Which fell out (so the curate said)
Four hundred years ago.
The scene of all this woe,
Which fell out (so the curate said)
Four hundred years ago.
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It needs no search to find a church
Which all the land adorns,
We passed the weir, I thought with fear
About the olde bulle's hornnes.
Which all the land adorns,
We passed the weir, I thought with fear
About the olde bulle's hornnes.
No cock then crowed, no bull there lowed,
But, while we paced the aisles,
The curate told his tale, and showed
A tablet to Sir Giles.
But, while we paced the aisles,
The curate told his tale, and showed
A tablet to Sir Giles.
“'Twas raised by Lady Giles,” he said,
And when I bent the knee I
Made out his name, and arms, and read,
Hic jacet servvs dei.
And when I bent the knee I
Made out his name, and arms, and read,
Hic jacet servvs dei.
Says I, “And so he sleeps below,
His wrongs all left behind him.”
My wife cried, “Oh!” the clerk said, “No,
At least we could not find him.
His wrongs all left behind him.”
My wife cried, “Oh!” the clerk said, “No,
At least we could not find him.
“Last spring, repairing some defect,
We raised the carven stones,
Designing to again collect
And hide Sir Giles's bones.
We raised the carven stones,
Designing to again collect
And hide Sir Giles's bones.
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“We delvèd down, and up, and round,
For many weary morns,
Through all this ground; but only found
An ancient pair of horns.”
For many weary morns,
Through all this ground; but only found
An ancient pair of horns.”
| A Selection from the Works of Frederick Locker | |