Martin Lightfoots Song
Come hearken, hearken, gentles all,
Come hearken unto me,
And I'll sing you a song of a
Came swimming out over the sea.
He ranged west, he ranged east,
And far and wide ranged he;
He took his bite out of every
Lives under the greenwood tree.
Then by there came a silly old wolf,'And I'll serve you,' quoth he;
Quoth the Lyon, 'My paw is heavy enough,
So what wilt thou do for me?'Then by there came a cunning old fox,'And I'll serve you,' quoth he;
Quoth the Lyon, 'My wits are sharp
So what wilt thou do for me?'Then by there came a white, white dove,
Flew off Our Lady's knee;
Sang 'It's I will be your true, true love,
If you'll be true to me.''And what will you do, you bonny white dove?
And what will you do for me?''Oh, it's I'll bring you to Our Lady's love,
In the ways of chivalrie.'He followed the dove that
By mere and wood and wold,
Till he is come to a perfect knight,
Like the Paladin of old.
He ranged east, he ranged west,
And far and wide ranged he—And ever the dove won him honour and
In the ways of chivalrie.
Then by there came a foul old sow,
Came rookling under the tree;
And 'It's I will be true love to you,
If you'll be true to me.''And what wilt thou do, thou foul old sow?
And what wilt thou do for me?''Oh, there hangs in my snout a jewel of gold,
And that will I give to thee.'He took to the sow that Wood-Lyon;
To the rookling sow took he;
And the dove flew up to Our Lady's bosom;
And never again throve he.
Charles Kingsley
Other author posts
A Farewell
My fairest child, I have no song to give you; No lark could pipe in skies so dull and gray; Yet, if you will, one quiet hint I'll leave you,
Trehill Well
There stood a low and ivied roof, As gazing rustics tell, In times of chivalry and song'Yclept the holy well Above the ivies' branchlets
On The Death of A Certain Journal
So die, thou child of stormy dawn, Thou winter flower, forlorn of nurse; Chilled early by the bigot's curse, The pedant's frown, the worldling's yawn
In An Illuminated Missal
I would have loved: there are no mates in heaven; I would be great: there is no pride in heaven; I would have sung, as doth the The summer's night beneath the moone pale,