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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

truth.

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

grey."

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

grey."

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

tell.

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

you
will, so that

you

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

vassal's head.”

66

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

heir.

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.

1.
RED glows the forge in Striguil's bounds,
And hammers din, and anvil sounds,
And armourers, with iron toil,
Barb many a steed for battle's broil.
Foul fall the hand which bends the steel
Around the courser's thundering heel,
That e'er shall dint a sable wound
On fair Glamorgan's velvet ground!

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 !

IV.

Old Chepstow's brides may curse the toil,
That arm'd stout Clare for Cambrian broil;
Their orphans long the art may rue,
For Neville's war-horse forged the shoe.
No more the stamp of armed steed
Shall dint Glamorgan's velvet mead;
Nor trace be there, in early spring,
Save of the Fairies' emerald ring.

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