The Minstrel's Song.

O choose thou the maid with the gentle blue eye,

That speaketh so softly, and looketh so shy;

Who weepeth for pity,

To hear a love ditty,

And marketh the end with a sigh.

If thou weddest a maid with a wide staring look,

Who babbleth as loud as the rain-swollen brook,

Each day for the morrow

Will nurture more sorrow,—

Each sun paint thy shadow a-crook.

The maid that is gentle will make a kind wife;

The magpie that prateth will stir thee to strife:

‘ Twere better to tarry,

Unless thou canst marry

To sweeten the bitters of life!

What fires the youthful minstrel's lay

Lit in De Thorold's eyes,

It needs not, now, I soothly say:

Sweet Edith had softly stolen away,—

And‘ mid his own surprise,

Blent with the boisterous applause

That, instant, to the rafters rose,

The baron his jealous thought forgot.

Quickly, sithence a jocund note

Was fairly struck in every mind,

And jolly ale its power combined

To fill all hearts with deeper glee,—

All wished for gleeful minstrelsy;

And every eye was shrewdly bent

On one whose caustic merriment

At many a blythe Yule-tide had bin

Compelling cause of mirthful grin

To ancient Torksey's rustic folk.

Full soon this sturdy summons broke

From sire and son, and maid and mother:—

“Ho, ho! saint Leonard's fat lay brother!

Why dost thou in the corner peep,

And sipple as if half asleep

Thou wert with this good nappy ale?

Come, rouse thee! for thy sly old tale

Of the Miller of Roche and the hornless devil,

We'll hear, or we leave our Yule-night revel!

Thy folded cloak come cast aside!—

Beneath it thou dost thy rebeck hide —

It is thy old trick — we know it well —

Pledge all! and thy ditty begin to tell!”

“Pledge all, pledge all!” the baron cried;

“Let mirth be free at good Yule-tide!”

Then, forth the lay brother his rebeck drew,

And athwart the triple string

The bow in gamesome mood he threw,—

His joke-song preluding;—

Soon, with sly look, the burly man,

In burly tones his tale began.