The Desolation of Eyam :: :: University of Virginia Library

All ye that list to learned clerks, be warned by what I say,
And take a look before you leap, for 'tis the wisest way;
And for your better teaching, these stories I narrate,
To shew you when a deed is done, repentance comes too late.

I saw two youthful gallants go forth one may-day morn,
With hound in leash, and hawk on hand, and gold-tipped bugle-horn.

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But, ere the setting of the sun, they met in mortal fray,
And one lay cold upon the ground, the other fled away.
He hastened to a foreign land, to shun the kinsmen's ire,
And sadly wandered up and down, a knight without a squire.
No hound had he beside him, and no hawk sate on his wrist,
But, ever and anon, he cried—“Alack! had I but wist!’

There was a merchant of the main, had thirty ships and three,
And all came sailing into port, well laden as could be;
And he had silks, perfumes and pearls, and wealth a golden store,
Beyond the wealth of merchantmen, and yet he wanted more.
He sent his vessels out again, his thirty ships and three—
But some were ta'en, and some were wrecked, and some sunk in the sea;
He lost his wealth, he lost his wits, and he sung evermore,
And aye his song was, night and day, “Would I had wist before!”

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My father knew a gentleman, with lands and golden fee,
Who freely gave unto the poor, and kept brave company.
He gave to all, he lent to all, but ere long time was gone,
His lands were sold, his gold was spent, and friends he had not one;
He asked from those who asked from him, it was his only hope—
They jeered him, and a penny gave, and bade him buy a rope;—
He flung the penny back again, and turning from the door—
“I've learnt a lesson here,” he cried; “would I had wist before!”

There was a lovely lady, sate in a sweet bower's shade,
To catch the welcome tones of her young knight's serenade;
He came not to her father's hall with a hundred squires in train,
But all he brought was a true heart, and a name without a stain.

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For though his was a noble line, its fortunes had decayed;
So he wooed her by his gallant deeds, and evening serenade.
But ill chance happed, one luckless eve, from idle words grew strife;
And hopes, that never failed before, were therefrom marred for life.
Just then an old lord riding by, looked on the angry pair,
And saw how bright the lady's eye, how rich her golden hair;—
And soon he wooed her for his bride, that old and churlish lord,
But not with evening lays of love, nor with an unmatched sword;
His lands, his wealth, his noble halls, and liveried serving train,
Had charm beyond a young heart's love that ne'er had known a wane.
But soon, and as she silent sate within her halls of pride,
Loathing the pomp and splendid train that thronged on every side,

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There knelt to her a weeping page, and these few words he spoke,
“Lady, come visit my dying lord, for his heart is well nigh broke.”
She went to an old, decaying hall, and entering there she found
A dead knight on a sable bier, and mourners standing round;
She gazed on his pale cheek and wept, and his cold lips madly kissed—
Saying “How true this worthy knight! ah me! had I but wist!”