Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads Jacobite Ballads, &c. &c. By George W. Thornbury ... with illustrations by H. S. Marks |
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THE CID'S STIRRUP CUP. |
 | Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads |  |
320
THE CID'S STIRRUP CUP.
“Bring me the great gold flagon,”
Cried the baron from his horse,
“And leap, my page, on my roan of roans,
For the Saracen's out in force,
Fill up the spiced old Cyprus wine,
With the scent that would rouse a corse.
Cried the baron from his horse,
“And leap, my page, on my roan of roans,
For the Saracen's out in force,
Fill up the spiced old Cyprus wine,
With the scent that would rouse a corse.
“Here's a cup to the good Saints John and Jude,
And one to my father dead;
Hail brave Saint James, whose steed of white
Hath wings all crimson red,
With the blood that spun from a sultan's wound
The day that Ali bled.”
And one to my father dead;
Hail brave Saint James, whose steed of white
Hath wings all crimson red,
With the blood that spun from a sultan's wound
The day that Ali bled.”
Then he drained the flagon huge and long,
And struck it with his fist;
For they cried, that they saw the crescents shine,
Gold spots against the mist:
Then he threw in the air his laughing child,
And its eyes and forehead kissed.
And struck it with his fist;
For they cried, that they saw the crescents shine,
Gold spots against the mist:
Then he threw in the air his laughing child,
And its eyes and forehead kissed.
321
How grim he shook the moths and dust
From the great flag of Castile,
He laughed at the red spots on the folds,
Then looked at the spurs on his heel;
Loud through the window he cursed the knights,
Lagging at their last meal.
From the great flag of Castile,
He laughed at the red spots on the folds,
Then looked at the spurs on his heel;
Loud through the window he cursed the knights,
Lagging at their last meal.
He flung his lance as high as the gate,
It made his roan curvet,
And strike ou drifts of the fire-bright sparks.
In his state war-saddle set,
He clashed his breast with his rough mailed hand,
In his chafe and burning fret.
It made his roan curvet,
And strike ou drifts of the fire-bright sparks.
In his state war-saddle set,
He clashed his breast with his rough mailed hand,
In his chafe and burning fret.
At last, down the flinty mountain path,
He dashed with a stormy curse;
Singing the song of Charles the Great,
And a hymn mixed verse for verse;
Feather and banner, and housing and robe,
Black as the plumes of a hearse.
He dashed with a stormy curse;
Singing the song of Charles the Great,
And a hymn mixed verse for verse;
Feather and banner, and housing and robe,
Black as the plumes of a hearse.
| Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads | |