Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads Jacobite Ballads, &c. &c. By George W. Thornbury ... with illustrations by H. S. Marks |
 |
|
|
 |
THE HORN OF ULPHUS. |
 | Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads |  |
THE HORN OF ULPHUS.
[The horn of Ulphus, a Saxon chief, is still preserved in the sacristy of York Minster. It is of immense size, and is probably the tip of an elephant's tusk. It is curiously carved, and has become from age of a rich mellow colour. Ulphus is said to have filled it full of wine when he presented his lands, kneeling at the high altar, and as he rose drained it at a draught to the honour of St. Peter. We have, by a fair poetical license, supposed it to have been used at civic banquets by the monarchs who have at various times visited the northern capital. The Horn, we may add, is undoubtedly of Eastern origin; and, if not brought from Antioch by some Roman proconsul, may have been part of a crusader's spoil at Acre or Damietta.—York Cathedral is dedicated to St. Peter.]
'Mid the reapers in the croft;
Slaves have frothed thee for the Cæsar,
Watching in the glebe the leaser.
Waiting like the Jews for manna,
Sat the Danes, and mixed up
Hubba's blood in Ulpha's cup.
They would slay the Saxon craven,
And the hare should crouch and breed,
Where the Seven Princes feed.
Fast before him burnt the flame,
Pestilence his herald fleet,
Famine shivering at his feet.
Barren grew the blighted sod,
All before him sweet and fair,
All behind him scorch and bare.
Pledged in thee the turbaned trader,
When he sheathed his broken brand,
By Damascus' burning sand.
With the Dame of Cyprus met,
He before the Virgin's shrine,
Filled thee full of Gascon wine.
By her mantle, brooch, and glove,
For her sake he'd snap a lance
In the very heart of France.
John came scowling from the fray,
Prodigals and jesters all,
Held at York their festival.
Trembled at his wily glance,
When he saw the altar plate
Glitter through the cloister grate.
With the jostling tournament,
Swearing 'twas a kingly cup,
Bade his jester take a sup.
From his foray on the Scot,
Cried for wine his thirst to stanch,
“Wallace, Wallace! ma revanche.”
Dipped thee in St. Peter's spring,
As through aisle and chapel dim,
Came the pealing battle hymn.
Held thee up aloft in sport,
Bade an archer at a gulp,
Drain thee without aid or help.
Raised unto her lips this horn,
As she leapt upon her barb,
All a man but for the garb.
Cursing the sweet Litany,
As it rose like a perfume,
From St. Peter's holy tomb.
Thou wert goblet for a giant;
Poured the last drop on the stones,
Vowing by A'Becket's bones,
Such a cup as that could drain;
Then he shouted for the chalice,
From the shrine of good St. Alice.
Perfumes tossing from their hair,
Laughed as with a pouting lip;
Every beauty took a sip.
| Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads | |