Poem: Ballade De Marguerite ( Normande )

I am weary of lying within the chase

When the knights are meeting in market-place.

Nay, go not thou to the red-roofed town

Lest the hoofs of the war-horse tread thee down.

But I would not go where the Squires ride,

I would only walk by my Lady's side.

Alack! and alack! thou art overbold,

A Forester's son may not eat off gold.

Will she love me the less that my Father is seen

Each Martinmas day in a doublet green?

Perchance she is sewing at tapestrie,

Spindle and loom are not meet for thee.

Ah, if she is working the arras bright

I might ravel the threads by the fire-light.

Perchance she is hunting of the deer,

How could you follow o'er hill and mere?

Ah, if she is riding with the court,

I might run beside her and wind the morte.

Perchance she is kneeling in St. Denys,

( On her soul may our Lady have gramercy! )

Ah, if she is praying in lone chapelle,

I might swing the censer and ring the bell.

Come in, my son, for you look sae pale,

The father shall fill thee a stoup of ale.

But who are these knights in bright array?

Is it a pageant the rich folks play?

‘ T is the King of England from over sea,

Who has come unto visit our fair countrie.

But why does the curfew toll sae low?

And why do the mourners walk a-row?

O‘ t is Hugh of Amiens my sister's son

Who is lying stark, for his day is done.

Nay, nay, for I see white lilies clear,

It is no strong man who lies on the bier.

O‘ t is old Dame Jeannette that kept the hall,

I knew she would die at the autumn fall.

Dame Jeannette had not that gold-brown hair,

Old Jeannette was not a maiden fair.

O‘ t is none of our kith and none of our kin,

( Her soul may our Lady assoil from sin! )

But I hear the boy's voice chaunting sweet,

‘ Elle est morte, la Marguerite.’

Come in, my son, and lie on the bed,

And let the dead folk bury their dead.

O mother, you know I loved her true:

O mother, hath one grave room for two?