Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads Jacobite Ballads, &c. &c. By George W. Thornbury ... with illustrations by H. S. Marks |
 |
|
|
THE WITCH'S CHAMPION. |
|
 | Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads |  |
141
THE WITCH'S CHAMPION.
Look here! see how I spill this wine,
Crushing the crystal with my heel;
So his heart's blood shall run to waste,
And his clay-house with griding steel
I will deface—and why? because the beast
Dares to defame my lady. Sot!
He says her fame is spotted black;
Who says it, lies; I say 'tis not.
Crushing the crystal with my heel;
So his heart's blood shall run to waste,
And his clay-house with griding steel
I will deface—and why? because the beast
Dares to defame my lady. Sot!
He says her fame is spotted black;
Who says it, lies; I say 'tis not.
Look how I slice this falcon's neck;
Let knaves beware, the wolf's at bay;
Stand from the door—here, Watkin, ho!
Plant back to back, and chop a way.
He says—it makes me froth with rage—
Her white hand has a stain. The sot!
I know her pure as her babe's soul.
Who says she's false, he lies; I say she's not.
Let knaves beware, the wolf's at bay;
Stand from the door—here, Watkin, ho!
Plant back to back, and chop a way.
He says—it makes me froth with rage—
Her white hand has a stain. The sot!
I know her pure as her babe's soul.
Who says she's false, he lies; I say she's not.
142
O bring my helmet, visor up—
My eyes are dimmer than they were.
Here, Ralph, my heaviest tilting-spear!
And grind it sharp, Ralph—have a care;
For I will lop him limb to limb,
And throw the flesh to dogs. The sot!
The drunken beast to call her false!
Who says it, lies; I say she's not.
My eyes are dimmer than they were.
Here, Ralph, my heaviest tilting-spear!
And grind it sharp, Ralph—have a care;
For I will lop him limb to limb,
And throw the flesh to dogs. The sot!
The drunken beast to call her false!
Who says it, lies; I say she's not.
A witch, too! 'cause her golden bird
Flew to her bosom at her call—
A witch! because last holy night
She was found praying in the hall.
O devils! bring that toughest axe
With the oak shaft, and give me—Sot!
She's purer than the new-sprung flower.
Who calls her witch? I say she's not.
Flew to her bosom at her call—
A witch! because last holy night
She was found praying in the hall.
O devils! bring that toughest axe
With the oak shaft, and give me—Sot!
She's purer than the new-sprung flower.
Who calls her witch? I say she's not.
She liked me not; “Old Steady Dick”
Was my name at their spinning-wheel.
I know she shudder'd when I rose
From table, clashing in my steel;
And yet to save one golden hair,
I'd give my blood. Oh, fevers rot
The villain's tongue that called her false!
Who says it, lies; I say she's not.
Was my name at their spinning-wheel.
I know she shudder'd when I rose
From table, clashing in my steel;
And yet to save one golden hair,
I'd give my blood. Oh, fevers rot
The villain's tongue that called her false!
Who says it, lies; I say she's not.
143
Girth me up tight look—wax the shaft
Of the steel axe. No—blood shall glue
This hand to hilt. What's that? Who laughed?
Can see him coming! Call the Jew,
And bid him burn the bond he signed.
But one debt now, then red dew robs
His tongue and jaw, to call her false.
Who says it, lies; I say she's not.
Of the steel axe. No—blood shall glue
This hand to hilt. What's that? Who laughed?
Can see him coming! Call the Jew,
And bid him burn the bond he signed.
But one debt now, then red dew robs
His tongue and jaw, to call her false.
Who says it, lies; I say she's not.
And he, the husband, simple fool,
Led by this buzzard's poison tongue.
O God! now on my knees, but this—
Once let his throat be clutched and wrung,
Once foot to foot, and eye to eye—
In lowest hell, he'll roll and rot—
She pure as seraphim. She false?
Who dare say that? I say she's not.
Led by this buzzard's poison tongue.
O God! now on my knees, but this—
Once let his throat be clutched and wrung,
Once foot to foot, and eye to eye—
In lowest hell, he'll roll and rot—
She pure as seraphim. She false?
Who dare say that? I say she's not.
Where's William, he who kissed her shoe,
And kept the paring of her nail?
Where Robert, who, with bow and smile,
Ran for her swift as April gale?
All gone! all faithless—not one left!
Only old Dick—she feared so—sot!—
What, devil! down to hell—down, down!—
Who says she's false? He lies! she's not.
And kept the paring of her nail?
Where Robert, who, with bow and smile,
Ran for her swift as April gale?
All gone! all faithless—not one left!
Only old Dick—she feared so—sot!—
What, devil! down to hell—down, down!—
Who says she's false? He lies! she's not.
144
God has adjudged her pure. Look, fool!
Your sinless lady calm and white:
Dead—dead! her soul has flown to rest—
Gone to the angels of light—
And here the toad I crush, his viperous mouth
Silent at last—so let him rot.
Who says this holy saint was ever false?
He lies, lies, lies, for she was not.
Your sinless lady calm and white:
Dead—dead! her soul has flown to rest—
Gone to the angels of light—
And here the toad I crush, his viperous mouth
Silent at last—so let him rot.
Who says this holy saint was ever false?
He lies, lies, lies, for she was not.
Perish thy gold—I want no fees—
Or give it to the priest to sing
Masses for this dead angel's soul,
Where the old bell may jog and ring.
Good-bye, old Roger, I'm bound over sea;
Yes, Cyprus 'gainst the Turk—O sot,
And see so dear a lady dead. Farewell!
Once more, who calls her false? I proved her not.
Or give it to the priest to sing
Masses for this dead angel's soul,
Where the old bell may jog and ring.
Good-bye, old Roger, I'm bound over sea;
Yes, Cyprus 'gainst the Turk—O sot,
And see so dear a lady dead. Farewell!
Once more, who calls her false? I proved her not.
| Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads | |