Alfred the Great England's darling: By Alfred Austin ... Fifth edition |
 |
|
| I. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| II. |
| I. | SCENE I |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| III. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| IV. |
| I. |
| II. |
 | Alfred the Great |  |
SCENE I
[Athelney. Serfs are carrying loads to a barn near the King's Camp.]FIRST SERF.
Fetch me a hunk of salted flitch,
And a jug of sweetened ale,
And off I trudge to bank the ditch,
Or bang about the flail.
Who reeks of summer sweat and swink,
Or winter's icy pang?
Tilt up the mug, my mates, and drink,
And let the world go hang,
Go hang,
And let the world go hang.
Now, youngsters, snap the fallen sticks,
Now, hearthwife, boil the pot,
For we have thatched the barley ricks,
And ploughed the gafol plot.
The shepherd's star begins to wink,
The she-wolf whets her fang;
Up with the mead-bowl, mates, and drink,
And let the world go hang,
Go hang,
And let the world go hang!
THIRD SERF.
'Tis but a lean life we lead in Athelney. More tuns of marsh water, I warrant, than combs of smooth ale.
FIRST SERF.
Aye, and with sopping sedge to lie on, o'nights. But, after bearing planks to make ready the Witan for the King and the King's thanes, one 'ud sleep on a midden heap, were it dead froze. But that's done with; and now to stack all this gear afore noon.
[Alfred, still disguised as a peasant, passes by.]
(to Alfred).
Lend us a hand, gaffer, with this amber o' meal; none o' your sharps nor dog-bran, but real Earl's barley-meal, white as an Easter smock.
[Alfred helps, first one, then the other, in carrying the loads.]
THIRD SERF.
They won't starve, anyhow. Ten score ambers have been lodged in the King's Barn, since rising-time, along with two dozen staters of cheese.
FIRST SERF.
Aye, and more weys of bacon than I have fingers to score with, and gafolwood enow to brew as many combs of ale as 'ud drown all the Danes in Wessex.
SECOND SERF.
Trust Alfred for sousing them less wastefully nor
that, before gangdays come round anew.
(To
ALFRED.)
Why, thou hast more thews than any
twain of us, though thou'rt not goodly grown, nor
seemst fit for bearing loads. But thou liftst with a will.
'Tis the will does half the work. Heave but with the heart, and no sack feels heavy.
FIRST SERF.
And here are clews of net yarn for the weaving women, that no hands hang idle in Alfred's Camp.
ALFRED.
Am I free to go, masters?
SECOND SERF.
Aye, as free as a boor may fare.
[Alfred leaves them.]
THIRD SERF.
He's a rare hand at a pack, though we top him by a poll.
The tegs are in the fold,
The norland flakes are flying fast,
And o' 'tis nipping cold.
Still trolling as we gang,
Now is the time for meat and drink,
So let the world go hang,
Go hang,
So let the world go hang!
FIRST SERF.
An awry song for the lambing season, and with the cuckoo a-chuckling over the foster hedge-sparrow.
THIRD SERF.
No song's out o' season that cheers a man up. There's more warmth in an old song than in green faggots.
SECOND SERF.
Aye, and singing's a posset that suits summer and winter alike. They say Alfred the King wrote rare ditties before the Army broke out anew; though more anent spear-thrusts than tankards. But gammer rhymes are well enough for honest churls.
| Alfred the Great | |