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XXXIII. • But time traced furrows on my face, and I
grew silver-hair'd, For locks of brown, and cheeks of youth, she left this
brow and beard ; Once rich, but now a palmer poor, I tread life's latest
stage, And mingle with your bridal mirth the lay of frozen age.”
XXXIV. It was the noble Lady there this woful lay that hears, And for the aged pilgrim's grief her eye was dimm'd
with tears; She bade her gallant cupbearer a golden beaker take, And bear it to the palmer poor to quaff it for her sake.
XXXV. It was the noble Moringer that dropp'd amid the wine A bridal ring of burning gold so costly and so fine: Now listen, gentles, to my song, it tells you but the
sooth, 'Twas with that very ring of gold he pledged his bridal
XXXVI. Then to the cupbearer he said, “ Do me one kindly
deed, And should my better days return, full rich shall be
thy meed; Bear back the golden cup again to yonder bride so
gay, And crave her of her courtesy to pledge the palmer
XXXVII. The cupbearer was courtly bred, nor was the boon
denied, The golden cup he took again, and bore it to the bride; ** Lady," he said, “ your reverend guest sends this, and
bids me pray,
That, in thy noble courtesy, thou pledge the palmer
XXXVIII. The ring bath caught the Lady's eye, she views it
close and near, Then might you hear her shriek aloud, “ The Moringer
is here!” Then might you see her start from seat, while tears in
torrents fell, But whether 'twas for joy or woe, the ladies best can
XXXIX. But loud she utter'd thanks to Heaven, and every
saintly power, That had return'd the Moringer before the midnight
hour; And loud she utter'd vow on vow, that never was there
bride, That had like her preserved her troth, or been so sorely tried.
XL. “Yes, here I claim the praise," she said, " to constant
matrons due, Who keep the troth that they have plight, so stead
fastly and true;
For count the term howe'er
count aright, Seven twelvemonths and a day are out when bells toll twelve to-night."
XLI. It was Marstetten then rose up, his falchion there he
drew, He kneel'd before the Moringer, and down his weapon
threw; My oath and knightly faith are broke," these were
the words he said, " Then take, my liege, thy vassal's sword, and take thy
XLII. The noble Moringer he smiled, and then aloud did say, “ He gathers wisdom that hath roam'd seven twelve
months and a day; My daughter now hath fifteen years, fame speaks her
sweet and fair, I give her for the bride you lose, and name her for my
XLIII. “ The young bridegroom hath youthful bride, the old
bridegroom the old, Whose faith was kept till term and tide so punctually
were told; But blessings on the warder kind that oped my castle
gate, For had I come at morrow tide, I came a day too late.” THE NORMAN HORSESHOE.
AIR — The War-Song of the Men of Glamorgan
The Welsh, inhabiting a mountainous country, and possessing
only an inferior breed of horses, were usually unable to encounter the shock of the Anglo-Norman cavalry. Occasionally, however, they were successful in repelling the invaders ; and the following verses are supposed to celebrate a defeat of CLARE, Earl of Striguil and Pembroke, and of NEVILLE, Baron of Chepstow, Lords-Marchers of Monmouthshire. Rymny is a stream which divides the counties of Monmouth and Glamorgan: Caerphili, the scene of the supposed battle, is a vale upon its banks, dignified by the ruins of a very ancient castle.
II. From Chepstow's towers, ere dawn of morn, Was heard afar the bugle horn; And forth, in banded pomp and pride, Stout Clare and fiery Neville ride. They swore, their banners broad should gleam, In crimson light, on Rymny's stream; They vow'd, Caerphili's sod should feel The Norman charger's spurning heel.
III. And sooth they swore
- the sun arose, And Rymny's wave with crimson glows; For Clare's red banner, floating wide, Roll'd down the stream to Severn's tide! And sooth they vow'd- the trampled green Show'd where hot Neville's charge had been. In every sable hoof-tramp stood A Norman horseman's curdling blood !
Old Chepstow's brides may curse the toil,