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58

SIR RALPH DUGUAY.

A Ballad in Two Parts.

I. PART I.

It fell upon a merry day,
When hawthorn boughs were white,
Two brothers met in green Broadwood,
Betwixt the noon and night.
The one was called Sir Ralph Duguay,
A stately knight and tall:
The other was the young Walter,
Beloved of great and small.
They state them down beneath an oak,
All on the grassy ground,
Young Walter with his gay viol,
Sir Ralph with his great hound.
59

Young Walter took his viol up,
And tunéd every string,
Then gaily 'gan he play thereon,
And gaily 'gan he sing.
He sang a song of chivalry,
Made long ago in France,
Which set Sir Ralph his heart astir,
With deeds of sword and lance.
“A brave old song is that, Walter,
And bravely sung to boot:
The bird on the tree may fly for me,
So thou sing at the root.”
Young Walter took his viol up,
And tunéd it again;
And again he sang till Broadwood rang,
But in another strain.
A roundel of a sweet lady,
That witty was and fair,
The daughter of a puissant prince,
His only child and heir.
Sir Ralph uprose before the close,
And loudly laughed he:
“Now be she fair as the fair moon,
May'st have her thyself, for me.
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“She may be witty as thou wilt,
Right royal of degree:
She may have castles, and counties eke,
And thou may'st have all, for me.
“Let him who will go seek for care,
And carry home a wife:
If she have wealth, he payeth for that
Full dearly in his life.
“If she be great, his scutcheon therefor
May all the braver be;
But the higher name, the higher dame,
And the lower falleth he.
“If she be fair, her beauty fleeth
Like any summer's day;
But the monstrous vain conceit of it
No time will do away.
“If she have wit, she turneth it
To mischief every hour:
Her spouse may scarce abide in peace,
Nor he never will in power.
“Be what she may, let him give her straight
(Or he shall fare the worse)
A jangling pack of mincing maids,
And gold to stuff her purse.
61

“She must have trinkets quaint and rare,
And gowns both rich and trim:
Of such, I wot, she wearieth not,
But she wearieth soon of him.”
“Now nay, now nay,” quoth his young brother:
“Now put these gibes away:
His heart is cold which weddeth for gold,
And rue it well he may.
“For gold were vain, and also wit,
Nobility, and beauty,
To him who therewithal should lack
His lady's loving duty.
“But a hard life, with a loving wife,
Were pleasanter to me
Than the King his throne, and I thereon
A lonely man to be.”
“O hold thy peace, thou simple Walter!
Hold thou thy peace, and list:
The bachelor he hath trouble enow,
But much more hath he missed.
“Thou hast read in thy brave books, Walter,
Of things which never were:
May'st look till thou art blind, Walter,
For damsels limnéd there.
62

“This thing I credit not a whit,
For all the minstrels say,
That ever a lady held one mind
For twelve months and a day.
“On such if I should ever light
(As never I look to do),
Methinks I will cry mercy then
All womankind unto.
“Fast heart were better than fair face,
Wit, wealth, or high degree:
Till such I find, it is my mind
A bachelor to be.
“And for that he who doth not seek,
The slower is to gain,
Therefore I think until my death
A bachelor to remain.”
He has taken to him his strong cross-bow,
He has whistled to him his hound;
And away again through green Broadwood
Sir Ralph Duguay is bound.
Of all the paths in green Broadwood
The nighest taketh he;
And that is a path doth lead him out
Over against the sea.
63

“I'll thread the woods no more to-day,
But on the Heights I'll go;
For I fain would see what ship doth ride
At anchor there below.”
The ship lay moored without the bay
The rocky reef beside:
A royal ship all outward bound,
A waiting for the tide.
“Now hie thee home, hound Forester,
Now hie thee home, I say!
Bid them be ware of a hungry man,
Would sup with small delay.”
The hound leapt up with one short note,
Then bounded off amain,
Around the skirts of fair Broadwood,
Nor ever turned again.
Sir Ralph looked out along the cliff
To see what might be seen,
And so he saw Earl Peregrine
Come riding over the green,
Who had been thorough two shires
All on the King's behests,
And now rode homeward merrily,
With a score of gallant guests.
64

And ever as he ambled on
He looked across the bay,
Where stood so strong his castle walls—
The walls of Warenstay.
The walls rise up above the rock,
The rock from out of the sea,
From the water's edge to the postern-gate
Full fourscore steps there be.
And looking o'er to Warenstay,
He spied upon the stair
His daughter, Lady Margaret,
That was so young and fair.
She waved her white scarf o'er her head,
But stepping forward so,
Down from the stair that lady fell,
Into the waves below.
Then sprang the Earl upon the ground
Like one of wit bereft:
And “If ye leave my child to drown
I have never another left!
“O I have never another child
Save her in the surging sea,
And I'll give him a king's ransom
Who bringeth her safe to me!
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“Across the bay is a little way,
A bowshot and no more,
And I'll give him a king's ransom
Who bringeth her ashore!”
Across the bay is a little way,
Though it runneth far inland;
But fearful high above the sea
The Heights of Whindon stand.
On Whindon Heights the old shepherd
Hath sat full many a day;
But never swimmer saw he yet
Leap down into the bay.
And all the Earl's brave company,
So sound of neck and limb,
Deemed he who that great leap should try
Might never live to swim.
Then loud and louder cried the Earl,
“Will any save her life,
So he be come of gentle kin,
My daughter is his wife!”
Sir Ralph could hear no word of that:
A furlong off was he,
But presently he turned and spied
A woman in the sea.
66

He dropped his cross-bow then and there
With never a but nor if,
Stripped off his coat of Lincoln green,
And flung him from the cliff.
He flung him down into the waves,
And the waves went over his head,
But lightly rose he up again,
And lightly forth he sped.
Right forward steering swift and true
He stoutly cleft his way
Up to the goal he started for,
Beneath dark Warenstay.
He caught her by the silken sleeve,
And by the long, long hair,
And safe and sound he landed her
Upon the castle stair.
“I marvel,” quoth Earl Peregrine,
“What stranger this may be
Hath won, without the knowing it,
Mine only child from me?”
Out and spoke a saucy squire,
As they to ride began:
“And what if this same gentle wight
Do prove a married man?”
67

“Nay,” said the Earl, “I give him then
This jewel in my hat:
The King himself were fain I trow
To bid broad lands for that.”
They found the coat of Lincoln green,
And eke the rare cross-bow:
“Ho,” quoth the Earl, “methinks no churl
Such gear as this doth owe.”
They rode round by the head of the bay,
And up to the castle gate:
The gray-haired porter at his post
Their coming doth await.
“Now hither, hither, Hilary,
And say who this may be
Hath saved the Lady Margaret
From drowning in the sea?”
“Fair fall him ay by sea and land!”
Replied the porter old:
“Sir Ralph Duguay it was, my lord,
That knight renowned and bold.”
“A bold knight!” cried the company:
“Long live he with his bride!”
“A bold knight!” said Earl Peregrine,
And nought said he beside.
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The saucy squire he laughed apart:
“The stone may stick by the hat;
For Ralph Duguay is a bachelor,
And there's an end of that.
“But yet, I doubt, an he were asked
Herein to choose his own,
The bauble he were fain to take,
The bride to leave alone:
“Because of all blythe bachelors
I wot of east or west,
Methinks this very Ralph Duguay
Doth love his freedom best.”
So rode they all into the court,
And lighted by the door:
The Earl he walked into his hall
With gallant guests a score.
In there came the gay Countess,
Arrayed in scarlet pall:
“Now welcome home, mine own dear lord,
And welcome, gentles all!”
And in there came sweet Margaret,
All freshly clad and fair;
But still the damp of the salt sea waves
Lay on her yellow hair.
69

“O Elinor, my dear lady,
Great news there be to-day:
How to a knight of high renown
I have given our child away.”
“Great news are these indeed, my lord,”
The Countess said, and smiled:
“Now where is the knight hath won the right
To marry our only child?”
“An if thou ask me where, Madame,
I cannot surely say:
But here or there or anywhere
His name is Ralph Duguay.”
The smile went off that lady's face
Then when she heard the name:
The smile went off her face thereat,
And the colour went and came.
Up and spoke a prattling page,
The youngest and the least:
“Were't not well done to seek this knight,
And bid him to the feast?
“For yonder in the Hollow Way,
As I came through but now,
I saw one sleeping on the bank,
And he it was, I trow.”
70

“It were well done,” replied the Earl,
“And best methinks by me.”
With that he turned him on his heel,
And went forth suddenly.
Down from the wold into the vale
There runs the Hollow Way,
Wherein he looked to find Sir Ralph;
As, certes, there he lay.
But him a-sleeping on the bank
The Earl had scarce espied,
When he was ware of his own lady
A stepping at his side.
Out and spoke the Countess then,
And roundly speaketh she:
“For all that's come and gone, my lord,
This match shall never be.
“I had liefer this same bold swimmer
Lay a fathom under water:
His father was my father's foe:
He never shall wed my daughter.”
The Earl he stood and knit his brow,
As one perplexéd sore:
“O, Elinor, their hearts which beat
In anger, beat no more.
71

“No challenge from the chantry comes,
No answer from the nave:
Leave them alone: their swords, Madame,
Are sheathéd in the grave.
“What boots it now to stir again
The reliques of their strife?
I have given herein my knightly word,
To keep it with my life.”
Lightly laughed the lady then,
Took up the Earl his hand:
“Stout fist was here, upon a time,
For battle-axe or brand.
“To break a lance with any man
Earl Peregrine would dare;
And is he now afeared to break
A rash word made of air?”
“For honour I would break a lance,”
He sadly made reply;
“But if I break my plighted word,
I honour lose thereby.”
“Ah, mockery!” then the Countess cried,
“For as stout as stout men be,
Will honour bind them hand and foot,
In bonds one cannot see!
72

“Hey, go thy ways, my lord,” she said:
“Leave me to work alone;
And trust thou ay to woman's wit
What things do pass thine own.
“Go home to thy brave company,
That loiter by the gate;
And bid them in to meat and drink,
For idle tongues will prate.
“Put off these dumpish looks, and say,
In merry speech and free,
‘Thou art ever best with the old friends,
And the new are best with me.’
“But send me four men secretly,
And a rope to every man;
And warn them that they make no noise
But all the speed they can.”
“A parlous dame thou art, truly,
And ready of thy wit!
But mark me, if he come to harm,
'Tis thou must answer it.
“The case is so, that friend or foe,
His debtors much are we.”
“O for his safety never fear!
I'll care for that,” quoth she.
73

The Earl he gnawed his nether lip,
Like one who boded ill;
Then turned him homeward grudgingly
To work his lady's will.
The Countess stood and watched Sir Ralph:
No mischief boded he:
In sooth he was a wearied man,
And so slept heavily.
O, comely was that lady's face,
But crafty was her thought;
And dainty fair her fingers were,
But a sorry deed they wrought.
She crept beside him where he lay,
With his arm thrown over a stone:
She drew the ring from off his hand,
And slipped it on her own.
Sir Ralph he dreamed a troublous dream,
There lying on the ground:
He thought that he was set upon
At unawares, and bound.
He tossed and muttered in his sleep,
But waking up ere long,
He found himself made fast in sooth
With cords both new and strong.
74

“How now, how now, ye false varlets!
Speak out, ye knaves, for shame!
Where learnt ye this new-fangled trick?
How call ye yonder dame?”
She turned upon him suddenly,
With rancour in her face:
“Thou hast known me ere to-day,” she said,
“My name, and eke my race.”
“I've known you ere to-day, Madame,
And I should know you still;
And I would the most I knew of you
Were good, as it is ill.”
“Take up, take up this bold fardel,”
Cry'd she, “this valiant load!
An he will needs discourse to us,
E'en be it on the road.”
They carried him to a high tower,
And the Countess went before:
She drew a key from her gay girdle,
And so unmade the door.
They passed in at the narrow doorway,
And up by the narrow stair:
Then when his shoulder struck the wall,
She never said “Have a care!”
75

They carried him into a little chamber,
With roof and floor of stone:
For hempen bands they did on iron,
And left him there alone.
Then laughed the Countess to herself,
And to herself said she,
“Now I have laid him by the heels,
I'll do what liketh me!”
The purse hung heavy at her side
With pieces broad and bright;
But ere she parted from those men,
The purse hung very light.
She bribed them all to hold them dumb
And her intent fulfil;
And if her gold was strong enow
Her threats were stronger still.
So hied she to the banquet-hall
Where all the folk were set;
But never spoke until she came
Beside fair Margaret.
Then drew she off Sir Ralph his ring:
“A token, child, for thee!
The knight who gave it me in charge
Sails yonder on the sea.
76

“No word of mine would bring him back,
Nor he never will claim his wife,
Till he have won a wider name,
At peril of his life.
“‘I'm not my lady's peer,’ said he,
‘In having, nor in birth:
The more 's the need that every man
Should hold me so in worth:
“‘And therefore I'll to France, Madame,
To seek what fame I may!’
Look out, for yonder goes the ship
Wherein he sails away!”
Then rushed forth all that company,
And mounted on the wall:
The Countess, laughing to herself,
Was foremost of them all.
They watched the ship which sailed away,
And shouted o'er and o'er
Farewell to bold Sir Ralph Duguay,
Who yet remained ashore.
77

II. PART II.

O'er Whindon Heights and Broadwood glades
The summer waned away,
But thorough wood or over wold
Went never Ralph Duguay.
O'er Whindon Heights and Broadwood glades
A year went round and still
Sir Ralph Duguay at Warenstay
Was lodged against his will.
The Countess to her daughter spoke
(And that high tower in sight),
“Sweet heart, no tidings come to us
Of yonder errant knight.
“Gay ladies plenty dwell in France:
Men are a fickle kind;
And truly she that's out of sight
Will soon be out of mind.
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“Reck nought of him recks nought of thee:
'Twere shame to stoop so low:
Hey, never mope for a false traitor,
But laugh and let him go!
“Why here's the Duke, the king's cousin,
Will wed thee if he may:
Go to,” said she, “be ruled by me,
And never say him nay.”
Fair Margaret's face waxed red apace:
“Sir Ralph Duguay his name
I have heard it spoken with little love,
But never, methinks, with blame.
“Never before, nor never more,
Dear mother, let it be;
But as you find me true to him,
Ay think him true to me.”
The Countess talked no more with her,
But on that self-same day,
Unto the Duke she writ boldly,
And promised her away.
Within a se'nnight from that time,
All at the twilight hour,
Came she again to her young daughter,
A spinning in her bower.
79

“O here be news enow from France!
A battle late hath been,
And a woful price the winning on't
Hath cost our King, I ween!
“For many a stout heart lieth cold,
Which never to none would yield;
And among the rest Sir Ralph Duguay
Was slain upon the field.
“'Tis pity, yet he died the death
A soldier ay loves best:
Who falls in fight falls like a knight:
So let his memory rest!
“But other knights are left on live,
Whereof the Duke is one:
Now art thou free as bird on tree,
And naysay shall he none.”
“O what is this device, mother,”
Sad Margaret replied,
“To take a woful fresh widow,
And make of her a bride?”
Little thought fair Margaret,
A-mourning in her bower,
How safe and sound Sir Ralph was lodged
Anigh her in the tower.
80

Little thought Sir Ralph the while,
Within his prison dim,
How Margaret in her gay bower
Wept all alone for him.
Sir Ralph looked forth at the narrow loophole,
And saw the jackdaws fly:
“Ay, tarry,” quoth he, “by the old tower:
You love it better than I.”
O strong, strong is the thick freestone
And strong is the iron gray;
But stronger still is the steadfast will,
And wears them both away.
He wrought by day, he wrought by night,
He wrought with might and main:
When he had wrought a year and a week
He went at large again.
Abroad amid the gay morning
The daws flew to and fro;
And Ralph Duguay as well as they
Was free to come and go.
He wandered down upon the shore:
“My limbs are something stiff,
Else would I fain go swim again,
And double Whindon Cliff.”
81

Anon he looked across the land,
A-doubting of his way;
And a voice came by with a heavy sigh,
“Farewell, Sir Ralph Duguay!”
Then he was ware of a sad lady
Sate weeping by the sea.
“Now of all the knights that ever wore spurs,
What makes her light on me?
“Of all the knights in broad England,
Fair lady, tell me true,
Why call you on this Ralph Duguay,
Who calleth not on you?”
She never rose, nor turned her head,
But her voice came like a moan:
“It is no blame to speak that name
Which should have been mine own.
“When he was living, as now he is dead,
I looked to be his wife:
He won me on my father's word,
By saving of my life.”
Quoth he, “There be more bars than one
This marriage well may let;
But certes Ralph his death is none,
For that he liveth yet.”
82

She rose and looked him in the face:
O wan she was that day!—
“In very sooth, do you know aught
Of this Sir Ralph Duguay?”
Said he, “In very sooth I do:
I've known him many's the year,
And every word I listen to,
I warrant he shall hear.”
She drew a ring from her fair finger:
“If this be so,” said she,
“As you would help one in distress,
Give him this ring from me.
“And tell him here at Warenstay
They count him to be dead;
And they would marry me forthwith
Unto the Duke instead.”
He took the ring of wreathen gold:
He knew it well enow;
And still he shook the tangled hair
The thicker o'er his brow.
“Yet ponder well, fair damosel,
And make this choice aright:
Is not the one a princely duke,
And the other only a knight?”
83

“Were the knight a simple squire,” she said,
“And the Duke a crownéd King,
The heart were due to the promise true,
And the hand unto the ring.”
“Take back the ring, thou rare lady!
Take back the ring, I say!
And take therewith my love and troth,
For I'm that Ralph Duguay.
“I thought whilere of ladies fair
Things bitter and untrue;
But from my very heart this day
Those ill thoughts do I rue.”
Fair Margaret stepped two paces back:
She scanned him o'er and o'er:
“O sorely art thou changed, my knight!
I had known thee else before.”
He swept aside the tangled hair
From off his cheek and brow:
“O sorely art thou changed, my knight
But well I know thee now.”
Earl Peregrine was set in state
Within his hall that day,
And around him all, both great and small,
In festival array.
84

And next beside him sate the Duke:
As richly dight was he
As it had been his wedding day:
He thought it so to be.
In there walked Sir Ralph Duguay,
Unshorn, unkempt, unclean;
A-leading lovely Margaret,
Apparelled like a queen.
Uprose the Duke in stark amaze:
“I fain would understand
How dares yon strange unsightly man
To touch my lady's hand?”
Straight replied fair Margaret:
Her voice was low and clear:
“No lady am I of yours, Lord Duke,
But his which standeth here.”
O, then the Duke laid hand on sword
“My lord, I fain would know,
Is this some mime to pass the time,
Or may the truth be so?”
The Earl sate silent whilst he spoke,
And eke when he had done:
He gazed upon him dolefully,
But answer made he none.
85

Then laughed Sir Ralph a little laugh:
Said, “Lords and ladies gay,
And all the rest, hear now a geste
Upon this merry day.”
So presently before them all
He told his own true tale:
The Earl did quake whereas he sate
Beside his Countess pale.
The Duke stood still and heard him through,
Then laughed so loud and free,
Stepped forth and shook him by the hand,
And spoke out heartily.
“Gramercy for this merry geste,
This rare new geste of thine,
And I wish thee joy of thy wedding-day,
Though I thought it had been mine.
“For I would not part a lady's hand
From her own true love his ring,
For all the breadth of the broad acres
That lady ever should bring.
“I wish you joy of your wedding-day,
Sir Ralph Duguay,” he cried:
“Have you for me the mother-in-law,
And the father-in-law beside.
86

“For I would not call them mine,” said he,
“As they sit there this day,
For the bravest bride in all England
Was ever given away.
“To horse, to horse, and home again!
Mine errand here is done.”
With that he flung him forth straightway,
And his following every one.
Then, like a hunted hind at bay,
Uprose that Countess bold:
“Is this our thanks, to be defied,
In our own house and hold?”
Outspoke Sir Ralph: “Of thanks, Madame
You have earned you double meed:
His friend that's gone you were in will,
And mine you were in deed.
“For had you asked my mind herein
That day I won your daughter,
I had given her up as readily
As another might have sought her.
“And had you not this trial shaped,
And done my doubts away,
I might have lived a bachelor
Up to my dying day.
87

“My heart is full of gay joyance:
Let anger go!” said he;
“And here's my hand for all present
Will give their hands to me.”
Forthwith uprose Earl Peregrine,
In answer to that call:
Stepped lightly past his proud Countess:
“Now hear me, one and all!
“I have given way this many a day
To wicked woman-craft;
But I'll be master henceforward.”
The saucy squire he laughed.
“The tide is turned,” quoth the proud Countess,
“And all the work undone:
I had liefer sewn my daughter's shroud
Than call Duguay my son.
“But yet, if better may not be,
Why battle any more?
Have here my hand, Sir Ralph,” she said,
“And let our strife be o'er.”
Then rose a shout amid the hall,
And rang from side to side:
“Now happy live the true bridegroom,
And happy live the bride!”
88

“An uncouth bridegroom,” quoth Sir Ralph:
I'll mend him if I can:
Let me go seek a coat to wear,
And bid mine own best man.”
They set him on a swift courser,
And home he rode full fain:
A joyful wight was young Walter
To look on him again.
And “Dearly welcome home, brother,
And welcome home to me;
But O thou comest home at last
In sorry plight,” said he.
“No coat upon thy back, brother,
No hat upon thy head:
I doubt it hath gone hard with thee
In France, dear Ralph,” he said.
“I have not been in France, Walter,
Nor I have not been in Spain;
But on English ground, where I have found
Small choice but to remain.”
“If I speak wide now, brother Ralph,
I speak but after thee,
And after that same fair letter
Which thou didst write to me.”
89

“O fair may yet be false, Walter,
And well methinks I wot
Who writ this fair and false letter,
Which I myself writ not.”
Then 'gan he shout, “Ho, Forester,
To greet me in time past
Wast wont to be the foremost ay,
Art now, my hound, the last?”
“Nay cease thy calling, brother Ralph,
Or call some other hound;
For Forester is dead and gone:
His bones lie under ground.
“He sought thee far and wide, brother,
And so he pined away:
We found his carcase on the Heights:
We buried it where it lay.”
Sir Ralph thereto made answer none;
But only from his eye
A tear dropped down on the broad hearthstone
Where the hound had used to lie.
“Now, Walter, put thy sad suit off,
And lightly don thy best;
For a wedding is to do this day,
And thou must be a guest.”
90

Right speedily they clad them both
In seemly rich array,
And so they rode forth side by side,
And up to Warenstay.
As they two rode amid the throng,
Quoth one, “Whoe'er they be,
These are the comeliest gentlemen
Of all the company.”
When they two stepped into the hall,
Young Walter spoke aside:
“I see no groom save one, brother,
To match with yonder bride:
“No king but one for yonder queen
Throughout the banquet-hall;
And he's the King of the Bachelors,
Will crown no Queen at all.”
“Hey, live and learn, my boy Walter:
I have lived and learned herein;
For yonder bride is mine, Walter,
And let them laugh who win.”
“O am I waking, brother Ralph,
Or dreaming where I stand?
If yon fair Queen my sister is,
Then let me kiss her hand.
91

So into chapel presently
They passed in order due;
And there Sir Ralph Duguay espoused
That lady tried and true.
“A heart that's fast I have won at last,
Even in mine own despite:
With wit, and wealth, and high degree,
And beauty passing bright!”
When Ralph Duguay rode home again,
His courser carried double,
And home rode he right merrily,
Forgetting care and trouble.
O earthly joy doth come and go,
But nowhere may abide:
Grief o'er his shoulder ever peers,
And thrusts him soon aside.
Sir Ralph unto his lady spoke,
Upon a summer's day;
“What is it ails our young brother,
To fade and fall away?”
Young Walter stood in green Broadwood,
With his back against a tree:
He took his viol in his hand,
And sweetly carolled he:
92

“Upon a time, methought that I,
Of all birds in the air,
Would fainest be the Ger-falcon
On lady's fist so fair.
“Methought there flew no bird so blest
As he, by wold or wood;
But now I'm in another mind:
I'll none of jess nor hood.
“I had liefer be the little Lark,
Which soareth up so high:
The Falcon he is well at home,
But the Lark more free doth fly.
“O happy, happy little Lark
Which soarest up so high!
The earth shows wondrous beautiful,
But brighter is the sky!”
Young Walter he grew very sick
Ere harvesting began;
But when All-hallowmas came round
He lay a dying man.
At dawn of that All-hallowmas
He sang surpassing well:
At noon of that All-hallowmas
They tolled young Walter's knell.
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