C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
Childe Maurice
By The Ballad
1.C
He hunted it round about,
And noebodye that he found therein,
Nor none there was without.
That runneth lowlye by my knee,
For thou shalt goe to John Steward’s wife
And pray her speake with me.”
*****
I, and greete thou doe that ladye well,
Ever soe well fro me.
As knots beene knit on a kell,
Or marchant men gone to leeve London
Either to buy ware or sell.
As any hart can thinke,
Or schoole-masters are in any schoole-house
Writing with pen and inke:
For if I might, as well as she may,
This night I would with her speake.
As greene as any grasse,
And bid her come to the silver wood,
To hunt with Child Maurice.
A ring of precious stone,
And bid her come to the silver wood,
Let for no kind of man.”
Another while he ran,
Until he came to John Steward’s hall,
I-wis he never blan.
He ran up hall and bower free,
And when he came to this ladye faire,
Sayes, “God you save and see!
A message unto thee;
And Child Maurice, he greetes you well,
And ever soe well from me.
As knots beene knit on a kell,
Or marchant men gone to leeve London
Either for to buy ware or sell.
As any hart can thinke,
Or schoolemasters are in any schoole,
Wryting with pen and inke.
As greene as any grasse,
And he bids you come to the silver wood,
To hunt with Child Maurice.
A ring of the precious stone;
He prayes you to come to the silver wood,
Let for no kind of man.”
For Christes sake, I pray thee!
For if my lord heare one of these words,
Thou must be hanged hye!”
And he wrote the words everye one,
*****
*****
“Make ready you my steede!”
I, and soe he did to his chamberlaine,
“Make ready thou my weede!
And he rode to the silver wood,
And there he sought all about,
About the silver wood.
Sitting upon a blocke,
With a silver combe in his hand,
Kembing his yellow lockes.
20.But then stood up him Child Maurice,
And sayd these words trulye:
“I doe not know your ladye,” he said,
“If that I doe her see.”
Alacke, how may this be?
For thou hast sent her love-tokens,
More now then two or three;
As greene as any grasse,
And bade her come to the silver woode
To hunt with Child Maurice.
A ring of precyous stone,
And bade her come to the silver wood,
Let for no kind of man.
The tone of us shall dye!”
“Now be my troth,” sayd Child Maurice,
“And that shall not be I.”
And dryed it on the grasse,
And soe fast he smote at John Steward,
I-wisse he never did rest.
And dryed it on his sleeve,
And the first good stroke John Stewart stroke,
Child Maurice head he did cleeve.
Went singing there beside,
And he rode till he came to that ladye faire,
Whereas this ladye lyed.
If that thou dost it see?
And lap it soft, and kisse it oft,
For thou lovedst him better than me.”
She never spake words but three:—
“I never beare no childe but one,
And you have slaine him trulye.”
I gave meate, drinke, and clothe!
But could they not have holden me
When I was in all that wrath!
That ever bestrode a steed,
So have I done one of the fairest ladyes
That ever ware woman’s weede!”