What the Knight and what his Dame were Now they are not so. III. Merry cheeps of madcap swallows Changeful shadows from the sallows On their white brows lie; For light friends go, if winds do blow, IV. Certes, lovely was the Lady! Of a noble presence surely, Dutiful and staid, Worthinesse was glad before her, Worthlessnesse afraid. V. Read beneath, in golden letters, Proudly written down, Names of all her " sonnes and daughteres,' Each a matron crown: Deftly cut in ruff and wimple, Kneeling figures show Small heads over smaller rising, In a solemn row. VI. These her triumphs. Sterner token Chronicles her lord: Hangs above him, grim and broken, Gilded helm and sword. Sometimes, when with quire and organ Red with the rust and gray with the dust, VII. Time was, Knight, that tiny treble Braying health to Noll. No more fight now!-nay, nor flight now! In chancel shade to that good blade VIII. Somewhere on this summer morning, Blooms a cheek whose rich adorning Herits, Dame, thy smile: Some one in the realm whose fathers Owes that sword and its good lord IX. Therefore for that maiden say I: "Dame, God thee assoil;" Therefore for that freeman pray I: "Knight, God quit thy toil;" And for all Christian men and me Grace from the gracious Lord To write our name with no more shame, HO! ye who in noble work Win scorn, as flames draw air, And in the way where lions lurk, Though trouble-tried and torture-torn, Life's glory, like the bow in heaven, And soul ne'er soared the starry seven, They've battled best who've boldest borne, The martyr's fire-crown on the brow Doth into glory burn; And tears that from love's torn heart flow, To pearls of spirit turn : Our dearest hopes in pangs are born, The kingliest Kings are crowned with thorn. As beauty in Death's cerement shrouds, God-splendours live in dim heart-clouds, The murkiest hour is mother o' morn, Sydney Dobell. "HOW'S MY BOY?" sailor of the sea! How's my boy-my boy?" "What's your boy's name, good wife, "You come back from sea, And not know my John? I might as well have asked some landsman, Yonder down in the town. There's not an ass in all the parish But knows my John. "How's my boy-my boy? And unless you let me know, I'll swear you are no sailor, Brass buttons or no, sailor, Anchor and crown or no Sure his ship was the Jolly Briton" ""Speak low, woman, speak low!" "And why should I speak low, sailor, About my own boy John? If I was loud as I am proud I'd sing him over the town! "How's my boy-my boy? Be she afloat or be she aground, I say, how's my John ?" "Every man on board went down, Every man aboard her." "How's my boy-my boy? What care I for the men, sailor? How's my boy-my boy? Tell me of him and no other! How's my boy-my boy?” |