Vicomte was he of the Limousin,

Where stones were thick and crops were thin,
And profits small and slow to come in.

But slow and sure, the father's plan, did
Not suit the son. Sire lived close-handed;
Became, not rich, but very landed.
The only debt that ever he made
Was Nature's debt, and that he paid
About the time of the Third Crusade,—
A time when the fashion was fully set
By Richard of running in tilts and debt,
When plumes were high and prudence low,
And every knight felt bound to "go
The pace," and just like Richard do,

By running his purse and a Paynim through.
Yet do not suppose that Vidomar

Was ever a knight in the Holy War:
For Richard many a Saracen's head

Had lopped before the old Count was dead;
And Richard was home from Palestine,
Home from the dungeon of Tiernstein,
And many a Christian corpse had made,
Ere the time in which the story is laid.
But the fashion he set became so strong,
That Vidomar was hurried along,
And did as many a peer has done
On reaching a title and twenty-one,
And met the fate that will meet a peer
Who lives in state on nothing a year.
Deserted by all, except some Jews,

Holding old post-obits and IOUS,

Who hunted him up and hunted him down,
He left Limoges, the capital town,

For his country castle Chalus,

(As spendthrift lords to Boulogne repair,
To give their estates a chance to air,)
And went to turning fallows;

At least, he ordered it, (much the same,)
And went himself in pursuit of game
Or any rural pleasure,

Till one fine day, as he rode away,
A serf came running behind to say

They'd found a crock of treasure.
No more he thought of hawk or hound,
But spurred to the spot, and there he found,
Beyond his boldest thoughts,

A sum to set him afloat again,

The leading figure, 'twas very plain,
Was followed by several Os.

Oh, who can tell of the schemes that flew Through his head, as the treasure met his view,

And he knew that again his note was good?
He may have felt as a debtor would

Who has dodged a dogging dun,

Or a bank-cashier in his hour of dread
With brokers behind and breakers ahead,
Or a blood with his last "upon the red,” —
And each expecting a run.

What should he do? 'Twas very true
That all of his debts were overdue;

But the "real-whole-souled" must use their gold

To run new scores, not to pay off old.

He caught the herald,—'twas by the slack
Of garments below and behind his back,-
Then twirled him round for a minute;
And when at last he let him free,
He shied him at a neighboring tree,
A distance of thirty yards and three,

And lodged him handsomely in it:

Then seized his ponderous battle-axe,
And bade his followers mount their hacks,
With a look on his countenance so stern,

So little of fun, so full of fight,

That, when he came in the Count's full sight,
In something of haste and more of fright,
The Count rode out of the postern;

And crowding leagues from his angry liege,
He left his castle to storm or siege,-

His poor beef-eaters to hold out,
Or save themselves as well as they could,
Or be food for crows: what noble should
Waste thought on such? As a noble would,
He prudently smuggled the gold out.

In the feudal days, in the good old times
Of feudal virtues and feudal crimes,

A point of honor they'd make in it,

Though sure in the end their flag must fall,
To show stout fight and never to call
A truce till they saw a hole in the wall
Or a larder without any steak in it.

The fight began. Shouts filled the air,-
"St. George!" "St. Denis !"- as here and there
The shock of the battle shifted;

There were catapult-shots and shots by hand,
Ladders with desperate climbers manned,
Rams and rocks, hot lead, and sand

On the heads of the climbers sifted.

But the sturdy churls would not give way,
Though Richard in person rushed to the fray
With all of his rash proclivity

For knocks; till, despairing of knightly fame
In doughty deeds for a doubtful claim,
The hero of Jaffa changed his game
To a masterly inactivity.

He stretched his lines in a circle round,
And pitched his tent on a rising ground
For general supervision