Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads :: :: University of Virginia Library

The lad with the bonny blue feather
That bore away jewel and ring;
That struck down Sir Walter de Tracey
Before the proud eyes of the king.
Tawney-yellow his doublet of satin,
His hat was looped up with a stone,
His scarf was a flutter of crimson,
As he leaped like a prince on his roan.

The heralds their trumpets of silver
Blew loud at the multitude's shout;
I saw the brave charger curvetting,
As Richard wound prancing about;
But silent they grew when Sir Tracey
(A gold-mine could scarce glitter more)
Gallop'd into the lists, cold and sullen,
Fool! eyeing the jewels he wore.

164

There were diamonds on hat and on feather,
Diamonds from crest unto heel,
Collars of diamonds and sapphires
Hiding the iron and steel.
His housings were silver and purple,
All blazon'd with legend and crest,
But seamed by the sword of no battle,
For Sir Walter de Tracey loved rest.

The lad with the bonny blue feather
Was a page and a gentleman born;
But Sir Walter, a knight of the garter,
Curl'd his thin lip in anger and scorn—
“Shall he who, the lion at Bullen,
Help'd trample the tall Fleur-de-lys,
Compete for the prize of the jewel
With such a mere stripling as this?”

“No, no!” cried the crowd of his varlets,
Waving with velvet and gold,
All shaking their colours and ribbons,
And tossing their banner's fringed fold.
To heighten the insolent clamour,
The drummers, beginning to beat,
Bid the trumpets sound quick for the mounting—
Never sound to my ear was so sweet.

165

For the varlets were flocking round Richard,
To hurry him down from his seat;
I saw him look fierce at the rabble,
Disdaining to back or retreat.
That moment the drums and the trumpets
Made all the proud ears of them ring,
As slowly, his cheek flushed with anger,
Rode into the tilt-yard—the King.

Pale grew the lips of the vassals,
Sir Tracey turned colour, and frown'd,
But the people, with scorn of oppression,
Hissed, and the hisses flew round:
Then the king waved his hand, as for silence,
Stamp'd loud on the step of his throne,
And bade the two rivals together
Dismount, and their errors disown.

“Ah! this page is a rival for any,
And fit to break lance with his king;
Let the gallants first meet in the tournay,
And afterwards ride for the ring.”
Dick stood at the feet of the monarch,
And bowed till his plume swept the ground;
Then, clapping on helmet and feather,
Rode into the lists with a bound.

166

Sir Walter was silently waiting,
He shone like a statue of gold;
Blue threads of big pearls, like a netting,
Fell over his housings' red fold.
On his helmet a weather-cock glittered,
A device of his errantry showing,
To prove he was ready to ride
Any way that the wind might be blowing.

Dick lifted his eyes up and smil'd,
Oh! it brought the blood hot to my cheek;
I could see from his lips he was praying
That God would look down on the weak.
He seemed to be grown to his saddle,
I felt my brain tremble and reel,
He moved like a fire-ruling spirit,
Blazing from helmet to heel.

The King gave the sign, and the trumpet
Seemed to madden the horses, and drive
Them fast as the leaves in a tempest.
With a shock the tough iron would rive,
Both lances flew up, and the shivers
Leapt over the banners and flags,
As the champions, reining their chargers,
Sat holding the quivering jags.

167

Fresh lances! “God's blessing on Dicky!”—
A blast, and in flashes they go!
“Well broken again on his scutcheon!”
Again the wood snaps with the blow.
Alas, for Sir Walter De Tracey!
His spear has flown out of his hand,
Whilst over his bright-gilded crupper
He stretches his length on the sand.

One start! he is up in a moment;
His sword waves a torch in his grasp,
Dick leaps from his foam-covered charger,
And springs with a clash to his clasp.
Sir Walter is shorn of his splendour,
His weather-cock beaten to dust,
His armour has lost all its glitter,
And is dinted with hammer and thrust.

He reels, and Dick presses him sorely,
And smites him as smiths do a forge;
He reels like an axe-stricken cedar—
He falls!—yes!—by God and St. George.
Then, oh, for the clamour and cheering
That rang round the circling ring,
As Dick, his blue feather gay blowing,
Knelt down at the foot of the King!

168

Then the King took the brightest of diamonds
That shone on his fingers that day,
He gave it to bonny Blue Feather,
And made him the Baron of Bray.
Then the varlets bore off their Sir Walter,
The jewels beat out of his chains,
His armour all batter'd and dusty,
With less of proud blood in his veins.

Then they caught his mad froth-cover'd charger,
That had torn off its housings of pearl,
They gathered up ribbons and feathers,
And, downcast, his banner they furl.
I was still looking down on the bearers,
When Dick o' the Diamond sprang in,
And without a good morrow or greeting,
He kissed me from brow unto chin.