Read the book: «Signelil, A Tale from the Cornish, and Other Ballads»

SIGNELIL

 
The Lady her handmaid to questioning took:
“Why dost thou so sickly and colourless look?”
   But sorrow gnaws so sorely!
 
 
“’Tis little wonder if sickly I’m growing,
   Malfred my lady!
So much am I busied with cutting and sewing.”
 
 
“Erewhile was thy cheek as the blooming rose red,
But now thou art pale, even pale as the dead.”
 
 
“To conceal the truth longer ’tis vain to essay,
My gallant young master has led me astray.”
 
 
“And if the young noble has led thee astray,
Say, what gave he thee for thy virtue in pay?”
 
 
“He gave to me shoes were gold spangled all o’er,
And them have I worn with affliction so sore.
 
 
“He gave to me also of silk a soft shift,
And with sorrow most painful I’ve worn the fair gift.
 
 
“He gave me, Christ sain him! a gold ring so fine,
Whose match I can see on no finger of thine.”
 
 
“But what will avail thee his presents of price,
If he thee will not wed before God and men’s eyes?”
 
 
“O, he to espouse me so often has vowed,
And rich presents beside upon me has bestowed.”
 
 
“What will his vows help thee in secrecy spoke?
To many a maid them he has made and has broke.”
 
 
“O, I on the gold harp will play me a tune,
And the knight to his presence will summon me soon.”
 
 
With her fingers so tapering she struck the first chord,
That heard, as he dozed in his bed, the young lord.
 
 
The gallant young lord to his waiting-boy said:
“Go straight, and call hither my mother’s fair maid.”
 
 
The bedside he stroked with so gentle an air:
“Dear heart, sit thee down, for thy weight it will bear.”
 
 
“O no, by the Saints, I will never do that,
For there, noble Sir, I have ne’er before sat.”
 
 
“Though thou ne’er hast placed thee upon my bedside,
Thou hast slept in my arms embraced many a tide.
 
 
“My spouse thou shalt be, yea, my heart’s beloved spouse,
And I in thine arms every night will repose.”
 

A TALE FROM THE CORNISH

 
   In Lavan’s parish once of yore,
Dwelt on the spot called Tshei an Hor,
A loving couple, man and wife,
But poverty distressed their life.
And thus the man his wife address’d:
“I’ll wander forth of work in quest;
And you, my dearest, you can earn
Your living here till I return.”
 
 
   His home he leaves, and, far from gay,
Towards the East he took his way.
At length a farmer’s dwelling reaching,
He enter’d it, for work beseeching.
“What work canst do?” the farmer cried;
“All kinds of work, Sir,” John replied.
Then straight they for a year agree,
Three pounds the wages were to be.
 
 
And when the year to end had come
The master paid him down the sum.
“John,” said his master, “here’s your fee;
But if you’ll it return to me,
A point of wisdom I will teach you.”
Said John: “Give it me, I beseech you.”
“No, no, to give is not my way.”
“Take it,” said John, “and say your say.”
Quoth t’other: “This in memory hold:
Ne’er for the new road leave the old.”
 
 
They for another year agree,
The wages just the same to be;
And when the year its end had reached,
The farmer forth the three pounds fetched.
“John,” said his master, “here’s your fee,
But if you’ll it return to me,
A point of wisdom I will teach you.”
“Give it me, Sir, I do beseech you.”
“For nought I will not speak, not I.”
“Well, take it then,” was John’s reply.
Quoth t’other: “Lodge not, for your life,
With an old man who’s a young wife.”
 
 
For yet a year they then agree,
The wages still the same to be.
And when the year to end had roll’d,
The three pounds out the master told.
“John,” said the master, “here’s your fee;
But if you’ll it return to me,
I’ll the best point of wisdom learn you.”
“For that, Sir, I’ll the wage return you.”
The farmer said: “Take this advice,
Ere striking once, bethink thee twice.”
 
 
Now John would serve no longer there,
Home to his wife he would repair.
“Go not to-day,” the farmer spake,
“To-morrow’s my wife’s day to bake;
She shall for you prepare a cake
Home to your faithful wife to take.”
 
 
The nine pounds in the loaf they hid,
And when John them adieu had bid,
The farmer cried: “I pray thee carry
This present home unto your deary;
And as ye two there merry make,
Then, and not till then, part the cake.”
 
 
John turned him homeward from the door;
And when he reach’d St. Eler’s Moor,
He met three Tre-ryn merchants there
Returning home from Exeter.
“We’re glad to see thee, John,” they cried,
“Where hast thou been this long, long tide?”
Says John: “I’m just from service come,
And to my wife am journeying home.”
“O travel with us,” cried all three,
“And very welcome shalt thou be.”
 
 
Before them two roads they behold;
They took the new, John kept the old.
And as they passed by Keou Tshoy Un,
When they had just lost sight of John,
Thieves set upon them furiously,
Whereat they raised a doleful cry,
Which reaching John’s ears on his rout,
 

 
Together with their comrade true,
Far as Kuz carn na Huila went,
And thence their ways lay different.
Now though the merchants earnest were
That John should with them home repair,
He steadfastly refused their plea,
Longing his wife and home to see.
 
 
When of the merchants he lost sight
He lounged away his time till night.
He’d fain know whether, while he roved
Abroad, his consort faithful proved.
 
 
Arrived, he listened at the door,
And heard a man’s voice, he was sure,
Within the bed; his knife he drew,
Resolved to slay the guilty two.
But soon remembering the advice,
“Ere striking once, bethink thee twice,”
In hurry from the door he strode,
But soon returning knocked aloud.
 
 
“In name of God, who’s there?” she cried;
“’Tis I am here, wife,” John replied.
(“Now in the name of blest Marie,
Whom heard I in her company?”)
“If John thou art, pray enter free.”
“First bring the light here,” answered he.
’Twas brought, he stepped the threshold o’er.
Quoth he: “On coming to the door
I heard a man’s voice in the bed.”
“Ah, Johnny, when away you sped
In distant parts for work to roam,
I then with child was three months gone;
In bed there lies a comely boy,
Unto us both he’ll be a joy.”
 
 
Said John, “I’ve something to disclose.
My master, when I left his house,
Gave me this cake I have in hand,
And with it gave the strict command
When I with thee should merry make
Then and not till then it to break.
I’ll now accomplish what he bade,
Mayhap we’ve wherefor to be glad.”
 
 
They broke the cake in anxious haste,
The nine pounds in it, lo! were placed.
They took the money, ate the bread,
And I for truth have heard it said
No quarrel e’er or noisy word
’Twixt them from that time forth occurr’d.
 
 
   Now, Gentles all, my tale is done,
I hope it has your favour won!
 

SIR VERNER AND DAME INGEBORG

 
         In Linholm’s house
The swains they were drinking and making carouse.
   The Dames ne’er could so gallant a prisoner keep in.
 
 
The swains they drank deep and they made themselves gay,
And so did Sir Verner in prison that lay.
 
 
Dame Ingeborg woke, and she lifts up her eyes:
“O, which of my maidens doth sing in that guise?”
 
 
“O, none of your maidens can sing in such guise,
’Tis Sir Verner who’s singing, in durance he lies.”
 
 
Dame Ingeborg straightway two servants addressed:
“To come to my presence Sir Verner request.”
 
 
In through the portal Sir Verner he strode,
And up to receive him Dame Ingeborg stood.
 
 
To the cushion Dame Ingeborg points with a smile:
“Go thither, Sir Verner, and rest thee awhile.
 
 
“Now hark thou, Sir Verner, what I to thee say:
I beg thou wilt sing me a pretty love lay.”
 
 
“A love lay I’ve never learnt up to this hour,
But I’ll sing to oblige thee the best in my power.”
 
 
Sir Verner began, and he sang such a lay,
That soon in deep slumber Dame Ingeborg lay.
 
 
The Dames and the maids fell to sleep and to doze,