Childe Maurice

Childe Maurice hunted the Silver Wood,He whistled and he sang:‘I think I see the woman yonderThat I have lovèd lang.’

He callèd to his little man John,‘You don’t see what I see;For yonder I see the very first womanThat ever lovèd me.’

He says, ‘Come hither, my little man John,That I pay meat and fee,For thou shalt go to John Steward’s wifeAnd greet her well from me;

‘And as it falls as many timesAs knots be knit in a kell,Or merchantmen go to leeve LondònTo buy ware or to sell;

‘And as it falls as many timesAs any heart can think,Or school-masters are in any schoolWriting with pen and ink.

‘Here is a glove, a glove,’ he says,‘Lined wi’ the silver-gris;Bid her to come to Silver WoodTo speak with Childe Maurice.

‘And here is a ring, a ring,’ he says,‘A ring of the precious stone:He prays her come to Silver WoodAnd ask the leave of none.’--

‘Well do I love your errand, master,But better I love my life.Would ye have me go to John Steward’s castle,To tryst away his wife?’--

‘Do not I give you meat?’ he says,‘Do not I give you fee?How daur you stop my errandWhen that I bid you flee?’

This little man John one while he yode,Another while he ran;Until he came to John Steward’s castleI wis he never blan.

He ask’d no porter’s leave, but ranUp hall and bower free,And when he came to John Steward’s wife,Says, ‘God you save and see!

‘I come, I am come from Childe Maurice--A message unto thee!And Childe Maurice he greets you well,And ever so well from me,

‘And as it falls as oftentimesAs knots be knit in a kell,Or merchantmen go to leeve LondònTo buy ware or to sell;

‘And as oftentimes he greets you wellAs any heart can think,Or schoolmasters are in any schoolWriting with pen and ink.

‘Here is a glove, a glove,’ he says,‘Lined wi’ the silver-gris;Ye’re bidden to come to Silver WoodTo speak with Childe Maurice.

‘And here is a ring, a ring of gold,Set wi’ the precious stone:He prays you to come to Silver WoodAnd ask the leave of none.’--

‘Now peace, now peace, thou little man John,For Christ’s sake I pray thee!For gif my lord heard one o’ thy wordsThou must be hangèd hie!’

O aye she stampèd with her footAnd winkèd with her e’e;But for all that she could say or doForbidden he would not be.

‘It’s surely to my bower-woman,It cannot be to me!’--‘Nay, I brought it to John Steward’s lady,And I trow that thou art she.’

Out then spake the wily nurse,Wi’ the bairn just on her knee:‘If this be come from Childe MauriceIt’s dear welcome to me.’--

‘Thou liest, thou liest, thou wily nurse,So loud as I hear thee lie!I brought it to John Steward’s lady,And I trow thou be not she.’

Then up and rose him John Steward,And an angry man was he:‘Did I think there was a lord in the worldMy lady loved but me!’

He struck the table wi’ his foot,And kepp’d it with his knee,Till silver cup and ezar dishIn flinders they did flee.

He call’d unto his horse-keeper,‘Make ready you my steed!’So did he to his chamberlain,‘Go fetch my lady’s weed!’

O he dress’d himself in the holland smock,And he cast a lease upon his back,And he rode to Silver Wood.

And when he came to Silver Wood,No body saw he thereBut Childe Maurice upon a blockCombing his yellow hair.

Childe Maurice sat in Silver Wood,He whistled and he sang:‘I think I see the woman comeThat I have lovèd lang.’

But then stood up him Childe MauriceHis mother to help from horse:‘O alas, alas!’ says Childe Maurice,‘My mother was ne’er so gross!’

‘No wonder, no wonder,’ John Steward he said,‘My lady loved thee well,For the fairest part of my bodyIs blacker than thy heel.’

John Steward had a little brown swordThat hung low down by his knee;He has cut the head off Childe MauriceAnd the body put on a tree.

And he prick’d the head on his sword’s point,Went singing there beside,And he rode till he came to the castleWhereas his lady ly’ed.

And when he came to his lady--Look’d o’er the castle-wall--He threw the head into her lap,Saying ‘Lady, tak’ the ball!’

Says, ‘Dost thou know Childe Maurice’ head,If that thou dost it see?And lap it soft, and kiss it oft,For thou loved’st him better than me.’

But when she look’d on Childe Maurice’ headShe ne’er spake words but three:‘I never bare no child but one,And you have slain him, trulye.’

And she has taken the bloody headAnd kiss’d it, cheek and chin:‘I was once as full o’ Childe MauriceAs the hip is o’ the stane.

‘I got him in my mother’s bowerWi’ mickle sin and shame;I brought him up in the good greenwoodUnder the shower and rain.’

And she has taken her Childe MauriceAnd kiss’d him, mouth and chin:‘O better I love my Childe MauriceThan all my royal kin!’

‘Woe be to thee!’ John Steward he said,And a woe, woe man was he;‘For if you had told me he was your sonHe had never been slain by me.’

Says, ‘Wicked be my merry men all,I gave meat, drink and cloth!But could they not have holden meWhen I was in all that wrath?’