The Poetical Works of Thomas Chatterton :: :: University of Virginia Library

When England, smoking from her deadly wound,
From her galled neck did pluck the chains away,
Knowing her lawful sons fall all around,
(Mighty they fell, 'twas Honour led the fray).
Then in a dale, by eve's dark surcote gray,
Two lonely shepherds did abrodden fly,
(The rustling leaf doth their white hearts affray),
And with the owlet trembled and did cry;
First Robert Neatherd his sore bosom stroke,
Then fell upon the ground and thus y-spoke.

196

Robert.
Ah, Raufe! if thus the hours do come along,
If thus we fly in chase of further wo,
Our feet will fail, albeit we be strong,
Nor will our pace swift as our danger go.
To our great wrongs we have enheapèd mo.
The Barons war! Oh, woe and well-a-day!
I have my life, but have escapèd so,
That life itself my senses doth affray.
Oh Raufe, come list, and hear my dernie tale,
Come hear the baleful doom of Robin of the dale.

Raufe.
Say to me naught; I know thy woe in mine.
Oh! I've a tale that Sabalus might tell.
Sweetflowerets, mantled meadows, forests digne;
Gravots, far-kenned, around the hermit's cell,
The sweet ribible dinning in the dell,
The joyous dancing in the hostel-court;
Eke the high song and every joy, farewell!
Farewel, the very shade of fair disport;
Impestering troubles on my head do come,
Nor one kind Saint to ward the aye-increasing doom.

197

Rob.
Oh! I could wail my kingcup-deckèd mees,
My spreading flocks of sheep of lily white,
My tender apples, and embodied trees,
My parker's grange, far-spreading to the sight,
My cuyen kine, my bullocks strong in fight,
My gorne emblanchèd with the comfreie plant,
My flower-Saint-Mary shooting with the light,
My store of all the blessings Heaven can grant;
I am duressèd unto sorrow's blow,
I, hanten'd to the pain, will let no salt tear flow.

Raufe.
Here I will obaie until Death do 'pear,
Here, like a foul empoisoned lethal tree,
Which slayeth every one that cometh near,

198

So will I, fixèd unto this place, gre.
I to bemoan have far more cause than thee;
Slain in the war my boolie father lies;
Oh! joyous I his murderer would sle,
And by his side for aye enclose mine eyes.
Calkèd from every joy, here will I bleed,
Fall'n is the cullis-gate of my heart's castlestead.

Rob.
Our woes alike, alike our doom shall be,
My son, my only son, ystorven is;
Here will I stay, and end my life with thee,
A life like mine a burden is, ywis.
Now e'en from lodges fled is happiness,
Minsters alone can boast the holy saint.
Now doth fair England wear a bloody dress,
And with her champions' gore her face depeint;
Peace fled, disorder sheweth her dark rode,
And thórough air doth fly, in garments stained with blood.