Oh, who may this dead warrior be That to his grave they bring?

'Tis William, Duke of Normandy, The conqueror and king.

Across the sea, with fire and sword, The English crown he won; The lawless Scots they owned him lord, But now his rule is done.

A king should die from length of years, A conqueror in the field, A king amid his people's tears, A conqueror on his shield.

But he, who ruled by sword and flame, Who swore to ravage France, Like some poor serf without a name, Has died by mere mischance.

To Caen now he comes to sleep, The minster bells they toll, A solemn sound it is and deep, May G.o.d receive his soul!

With priests that chant a wailing hymn, He slowly comes this way, To where the painted windows dim The lively light of day.

He enters in. The townsfolk stand In reverent silence round, To see the lord of all the land Take house in narrow ground.

While, in the dwelling-place he seeks, To lay him they prepare, One a.s.selin FitzArthur speaks, And bids the priests forbear.

'The ground whereon this abbey stands Is mine,' he cries, 'by right.

'Twas wrested from my father's hands By lawlessness and might.

Duke William took the land away, To build this minster high.

Bury the robber where ye may, But here he shall not lie.'

The holy brethren bid him cease; But he will not be stilled, And soon the house of G.o.d's own peace With noise and strife is filled.

And some cry shame on a.s.selin, Such tumult to excite, Some say, it was Duke William's sin, And a.s.selin does right.

But he round whom their quarrels keep, Lies still and takes no heed.

No strife can mar a dead man's sleep, And this is rest indeed.

Now a.s.selin at length is won The land's full price to take, And let the burial rites go on, And so a peace they make.

When Harold, king of Englishmen, Was killed in Senlac fight, Duke William would not yield him then A Christian grave or rite.

Because he fought for keeping free His kingdom and his throne, No Christian rite nor grave had he In land that was his own.

And just it is, this Duke unkind, Now he has come to die, In plundered land should hardly find Sufficient s.p.a.ce to lie.

THE DEATH OF WILLIAM RUFUS

The Red King's gone a-hunting, in the woods his father made For the tall red deer to wander through the thicket and the glade, The King and Walter Tyrrel, Prince Henry and the rest Are all gone out upon the sport the Red King loves the best.

Last night, when they were feasting in the royal banquet-hall, De Breteuil told a dream he had, that evil would befall If the King should go to-morrow to the hunting of the deer, And while he spoke, the fiery face grew well-nigh pale to hear.

He drank until the fire came back, and all his heart was brave, Then bade them keep such woman's tales to tell an English slave, For he would hunt to-morrow, though a thousand dreams foretold All the sorrow and the mischief De Breteuil's brain could hold.

So the Red King's gone a-hunting, for all that they could do, And an arrow in the greenwood made De Breteuil's dream come true.

They said 'twas Walter Tyrrel, and so it may have been, But there's many walk the forest when the leaves are thick and green.

There's many walk the forest, who would gladly see the sport, When the King goes out a-hunting with the n.o.bles of his court, And when the n.o.bles scatter, and the King is left alone, There are thickets where an English slave might string his bow unknown.

The forest laws are cruel, and the time is hard as steel To English slaves, trod down and bruised beneath the Norman heel.

Like worms they writhe, but by-and-by the Norman heel may learn There are worms that carry poison, and that are not slow to turn.

The lords came back, by one and two, from straying far apart, And they found the Red King lying with an arrow in his heart.

Who should have done the deed, but him by whom it first was seen?

So they said 'twas Walter Tyrrel, and so it may have been.

They cried upon Prince Henry, the brother of the King, And he came up the greenwood, and rode into the ring.

He looked upon his brother's face, and then he turned away, And galloped off to Winchester, where all the treasure lay.

'G.o.d strike me,' cried De Breteuil, 'but brothers' blood is thin!

And why should ours be thicker that are neither kith nor kin?'

They spurred their horses in the flank, and swiftly thence they pa.s.sed, But Walter Tyrrel lingered and forsook his liege the last.

They say it was enchantment, that fixed him to the scene, To look upon his traitor's work, and so it may have been.

But presently he got to horse, and took the seaward way, And all alone within the glade, in state the Red King lay.

Then a creaking cart came slowly, which a charcoal-burner drove.

He found the dead man lying, a ghastly treasure-trove; He raised the corpse for charity, and on his wagon laid, And so the Red King drove in state from out the forest glade.

His hair was like a yellow flame about the bloated face, The blood had stained his tunic from the fatal arrow-place.

Not good to look upon was he, in life, nor yet when dead.

The driver of the cart drove on, and never turned his head.

When next the n.o.bles throng at night the royal banquet-hall, Another King will rule the feast, the drinking and the brawl, While Walter Tyrrel walks alone upon the Norman sh.o.r.e, And the Red King in the forest will chase the deer no more.

AFTER WATERLOO

On the field of Waterloo we made Napoleon rue That ever out of Elba he decided for to come, For we finished him that day, and he had to run away, And yield himself to Maitland on the Billy-ruffium.

'Twas a stubborn fight, no doubt, and the fortune wheeled about, And the brave Mossoos kept coming most uncomfortable near, And says Wellington the hero, as his hopes went down to zero, 'I wish to G.o.d that Blooker or the night was only here!'

But Blooker came at length, and we broke Napoleon's strength, And the flower of his army--that's the old Imperial Guard-- They made a final sally, but they found they could not rally, And at last they broke and fled, after fighting bitter hard.

Now Napoleon he had thought, when a British ship he sought, And gave himself uncalled-for, in a manner, you might say, He'd be treated like a king with the best of every thing, And maybe have a palace for to live in every day.

He was treated very well, as became a n.o.ble swell, But we couldn't leave him loose, not in Europe anywhere, For we knew he would be making some gigantic undertaking, While the trustful British lion was reposing in his lair.

We tried him once before near the European sh.o.r.e, Having planted him in Elba, where he promised to remain, But when he saw his chance, why, he bolted off to France, And he made a lot of trouble--but it wouldn't do again.

Says the Prince to him, 'You know, far away you'll have to go, To a pleasant little island off the coast of Africay, Where they tell me that the view of the ocean deep and blue, Is remarkable extensive, and it's there you'll have to stay.'