R. F. Murray [29]
sea, with fire and sword, The English crown he won; The lawless Scots they owned him lord, But now his rule is done.
A king should die from length of years, A conqueror in the field, A king amid his people's tears, A conqueror on his shield.
But he, who ruled by sword and flame, Who swore to ravage France, Like some poor serf without a name, Has died by mere mischance.
To Caen now he comes to sleep, The minster bells they toll, A solemn sound it is and deep, May God receive his soul!
With priests that chant a wailing hymn, He slowly comes this way, To where the painted windows dim The lively light of day.
He enters in. The townsfolk stand In reverent silence round, To see the lord of all the land Take house in narrow ground.
While, in the dwelling-place he seeks, To lay him they prepare, One Asselin FitzArthur speaks, And bids the priests forbear.
`The ground whereon this abbey stands Is mine,' he cries, `by right. `Twas wrested from my father's hands By lawlessness and might.
Duke William took the land away, To build this minster high. Bury the robber where ye may, But here he shall not lie.'
The holy brethren bid him cease; But he will not be stilled, And soon the house of God's own peace With noise and strife is filled.
And some cry shame on Asselin, Such tumult to excite, Some say, it was Duke William's sin, And Asselin does right.
But he round whom their quarrels keep, Lies still and takes no heed. No strife can mar a dead man's sleep, And this is rest indeed.
Now Asselin at length is won The land's full price to take, And let the burial rites go on, And so a peace they make.
When Harold, king of Englishmen, Was killed in Senlac fight, Duke William would not yield him then A Christian grave or rite.
Because he fought for keeping free His kingdom and his throne, No Christian rite nor grave had he In land that was his own.
And just it is, this Duke unkind, Now he has come to die, In plundered land should hardly find Sufficient space to lie.
THE DEATH OF WILLIAM RUFUS
The Red King's gone a-hunting, in the woods his father made For the tall red deer to wander through the thicket and the glade, The King and Walter Tyrrel, Prince Henry and the rest Are all gone out upon the sport the Red King loves the best.
Last night, when they were feasting in the royal banquet-hall, De Breteuil told a dream he had, that evil would befall If the King should go to-morrow to the hunting of the deer, And while he spoke, the fiery face grew well-nigh pale to hear.
He drank until the fire came back, and all his heart was brave, Then bade them keep such woman's tales to tell an English slave, For he would hunt to-morrow, though a thousand dreams foretold All the sorrow and the mischief De Breteuil's brain could hold.
So the Red King's gone a-hunting, for all that they could do, And an arrow in the greenwood made De Breteuil's dream come true. They said `twas Walter Tyrrel, and so it may have been, But there's many walk the forest when the leaves are thick and green.
There's many walk the forest, who would gladly see the sport, When the King goes out a-hunting with the nobles of his court, And when the nobles scatter, and the King is left alone, There are thickets where an English slave might string his bow unknown.
The forest laws are cruel, and the time is hard as steel To English slaves, trod down and bruised beneath the Norman heel. Like worms they writhe, but by-and-by the Norman heel may learn There are worms that carry poison, and that are not slow to turn.
The lords came back, by one and two, from straying far apart, And they found the Red King lying with an arrow in his heart. Who should have done the deed, but him by whom it first was seen? So they said `twas Walter Tyrrel, and so it may have been.
They cried upon Prince Henry, the brother of the King, And he came up the greenwood, and rode into the ring. He looked upon his brother's face, and then he turned away, And galloped off to Winchester, where all the treasure lay.
`God strike me,' cried De Breteuil,
A king should die from length of years, A conqueror in the field, A king amid his people's tears, A conqueror on his shield.
But he, who ruled by sword and flame, Who swore to ravage France, Like some poor serf without a name, Has died by mere mischance.
To Caen now he comes to sleep, The minster bells they toll, A solemn sound it is and deep, May God receive his soul!
With priests that chant a wailing hymn, He slowly comes this way, To where the painted windows dim The lively light of day.
He enters in. The townsfolk stand In reverent silence round, To see the lord of all the land Take house in narrow ground.
While, in the dwelling-place he seeks, To lay him they prepare, One Asselin FitzArthur speaks, And bids the priests forbear.
`The ground whereon this abbey stands Is mine,' he cries, `by right. `Twas wrested from my father's hands By lawlessness and might.
Duke William took the land away, To build this minster high. Bury the robber where ye may, But here he shall not lie.'
The holy brethren bid him cease; But he will not be stilled, And soon the house of God's own peace With noise and strife is filled.
And some cry shame on Asselin, Such tumult to excite, Some say, it was Duke William's sin, And Asselin does right.
But he round whom their quarrels keep, Lies still and takes no heed. No strife can mar a dead man's sleep, And this is rest indeed.
Now Asselin at length is won The land's full price to take, And let the burial rites go on, And so a peace they make.
When Harold, king of Englishmen, Was killed in Senlac fight, Duke William would not yield him then A Christian grave or rite.
Because he fought for keeping free His kingdom and his throne, No Christian rite nor grave had he In land that was his own.
And just it is, this Duke unkind, Now he has come to die, In plundered land should hardly find Sufficient space to lie.
THE DEATH OF WILLIAM RUFUS
The Red King's gone a-hunting, in the woods his father made For the tall red deer to wander through the thicket and the glade, The King and Walter Tyrrel, Prince Henry and the rest Are all gone out upon the sport the Red King loves the best.
Last night, when they were feasting in the royal banquet-hall, De Breteuil told a dream he had, that evil would befall If the King should go to-morrow to the hunting of the deer, And while he spoke, the fiery face grew well-nigh pale to hear.
He drank until the fire came back, and all his heart was brave, Then bade them keep such woman's tales to tell an English slave, For he would hunt to-morrow, though a thousand dreams foretold All the sorrow and the mischief De Breteuil's brain could hold.
So the Red King's gone a-hunting, for all that they could do, And an arrow in the greenwood made De Breteuil's dream come true. They said `twas Walter Tyrrel, and so it may have been, But there's many walk the forest when the leaves are thick and green.
There's many walk the forest, who would gladly see the sport, When the King goes out a-hunting with the nobles of his court, And when the nobles scatter, and the King is left alone, There are thickets where an English slave might string his bow unknown.
The forest laws are cruel, and the time is hard as steel To English slaves, trod down and bruised beneath the Norman heel. Like worms they writhe, but by-and-by the Norman heel may learn There are worms that carry poison, and that are not slow to turn.
The lords came back, by one and two, from straying far apart, And they found the Red King lying with an arrow in his heart. Who should have done the deed, but him by whom it first was seen? So they said `twas Walter Tyrrel, and so it may have been.
They cried upon Prince Henry, the brother of the King, And he came up the greenwood, and rode into the ring. He looked upon his brother's face, and then he turned away, And galloped off to Winchester, where all the treasure lay.
`God strike me,' cried De Breteuil,