Then out spoke Little John in wrath, "I tell thee, burly frere, The Pope may do as he likes at home, But he sends no Bishops here!

"Up, and away, Red Friar!" he said, "Up, and away, right speedilie; An it were not for that cowl of thine, Avenged on thy body I would be!"

"Nay, heed not that," said the Red Friar, "And let my cowl no hindrance be; I warrant that I can give as good As ever I think to take from thee!"

Little John he raised his quarter-staff, And so did the burly priest, And they fought beneath the greenwood tree A stricken hour at least.

But Little John was weak of fence, And his strength began to fail; Whilst the Friar's blows came thundering down, Like the strokes of a threshing-flail.

"Now hold thy hand, thou stalwart Friar, Now rest beneath the thorn, Until I gather breath enow, For a blast at my bugle-horn!"

"I'll hold my hand," the Friar said, "Since that is your propine, But, an you sound your bugle-horn, I'll even blow on mine!"

Little John he wound a blast so shrill, That it rang o'er rock and linn, And Charlie Wood, and his merry men all, Came lightly bounding in.

The Friar he wound a blast so strong That it shook both bush and tree, And to his side came witless Will, And Jem of Netherbee; With all the worst of Robin's band, And many a Rapparee!

Little John he wist not what to do, When he saw the others come; So he twisted his quarter-staff between His fingers and his thumb.

"There's some mistake, good Friar!" he said, "There's some mistake 'twixt thee and me; I know thou art Prior of Copmanshurst, But not beneath the greenwood tree.

"And if you will take some other name, You shall have ample leave to bide; With pasture also for your Bulls, And power to range the forest wide."

"There's no mistake!" the Friar said; "I'll call myself just what I please.

My doctrine is that chalk is chalk, And cheese is nothing else than cheese."

"So be it, then!" quoth Little John; "But surely you will not object, If I and all my merry men Should treat you with reserved respect?

"We can't call you Prior of Copmanshurst, Nor Bishop of London town, Nor on the gra.s.s, as you chance to pa.s.s, Can we very well kneel down.

"But you'll send the Pope my compliments, And say, as a further hint, That, within the Sherwood bounds, you saw Little John, who is the son-in-law Of his friend, old Mat-o'-the-Mint!"

So ends this geste of Little John-- G.o.d save our n.o.ble Queen!

But, Lordlings, say--Is Sherwood now What Sherwood once hath been? {200}

The Rhyme of Sir Launcelot Bogle.

A LEGEND OF GLASGOW.

BY MRS E--- B--- B---.

There's a pleasant place of rest, near a City of the West, Where its bravest and its best find their grave.

Below the willows weep, and their h.o.a.ry branches steep In the waters still and deep, Not a wave!

And the old Cathedral Wall, so scathed and grey and tall, Like a priest surveying all, stands beyond; And the ringing of its bell, when the ringers ring it well, Makes a kind of tidal swell On the pond!

And there it was I lay, on a beauteous summer's day, With the odour of the hay floating by; And I heard the blackbirds sing, and the bells demurely ring, Chime by chime, ting by ting, Droppingly.

Then my thoughts went wandering back, on a very beaten track, To the confine deep and black of the tomb; And I wondered who he was, that is laid beneath the gra.s.s, Where the dandelion has Such a bloom.

Then I straightway did espy, with my slantly-sloping eye, A carved stone hard by, somewhat worn; And I read in letters cold--Here.lyes.Launcelot.ye.bolde, Off.ye.race.off.Bogile.old, Glasgow.borne.

He.wals.ane.valyaunt.knychte.maist.terrible.in.fychte.

Here the letters failed outright, but I knew That a stout crusading lord, who had crossed the Jordan's ford, Lay there beneath the sward, Wet with dew.

Time and tide they pa.s.sed away, on that pleasant summer's day, And around me, as I lay, all grew old: Sank the chimneys from the town, and the clouds of vapour brown No longer, like a crown, O'er it rolled.

Sank the great Saint Rollox stalk, like a pile of dingy chalk; Disappeared the cypress walk, and the flowers; And a donjon-keep arose, that might baffle any foes, With its men-at-arms in rows, On the towers.

And the flag that flaunted there showed the grim and grizzly bear, Which the Bogles always wear for their crest.

And I heard the warder call, as he stood upon the wall, "Wake ye up! my comrades all, From your rest!

"For, by the blessed rood, there's a glimpse of armour good In the deep Cowcaddens wood, o'er the stream; And I hear the stifled hum of a mult.i.tude that come, Though they have not beat the drum, It would seem!

"Go tell it to my Lord, lest he wish to man the ford With partisan and sword, just beneath; Ho, Gilkison and Nares! Ho, Provan of Cowlairs!

We'll back the bonny bears To the death!"

To the tower above the moat, like one who heedeth not, Came the bold Sir Launcelot, half undressed; On the outer rim he stood, and peered into the wood, With his arms across him glued On his breast.

And he muttered, "Foe accurst! hast thou dared to seek me first?

George of Gorbals, do thy worst--for I swear, O'er thy gory corpse to ride, ere thy sister and my bride, From my undissevered side Thou shalt tear!

"Ho, herald mine, Brownlee! ride forth, I pray, and see, Who, what, and whence is he, foe or friend!

Sir Roderick Dalgleish, and my foster-brother Neish, With his bloodhounds in the leash, Shall attend."

Forth went the herald stout, o'er the drawbridge and without, Then a wild and savage shout rose amain, Six arrows sped their force, and, a pale and bleeding corse, He sank from off his horse On the plain!

Back drew the bold Dalgleish, back started stalwart Neish, With his bloodhounds in the leash, from Brownlee.

"Now shame be to the sword that made thee knight and lord, Thou caitiff thrice abhorred, Shame on thee!

"Ho, bowmen, bend your bows! Discharge upon the foes Forthwith no end of those heavy bolts.

Three angels to the brave who finds the foe a grave, And a gallows for the slave Who revolts!"

Ten days the combat lasted; but the bold defenders fasted, While the foemen, better pastied, fed their host; You might hear the savage cheers of the hungry Gorbaliers, As at night they dressed the steers For the roast.

And Sir Launcelot grew thin, and Provan's double chin Showed sundry folds of skin down beneath; In silence and in grief found Gilkison relief, Nor did Neish the spell-word, beef, Dare to breathe.

To the ramparts Edith came, that fair and youthful dame, With the rosy evening flame on her face.

She sighed, and looked around on the soldiers on the ground, Who but little penance found, Saying grace!

And she said unto her lord, as he leaned upon his sword, "One short and little word may I speak?

I cannot bear to view those eyes so ghastly blue, Or mark the sallow hue Of thy cheek!

"I know the rage and wrath that my furious brother hath Is less against us both than at me.

Then, dearest, let me go, to find among the foe An arrow from the bow, Like Brownlee!"