53. Old Robin of Portingale. Quiller-Couch, Arthur, ed. 1910. The Oxford Book of Ballads

Verse > Anthologies > Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. > The Oxford Book of Ballads

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Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. (1863–1944). The Oxford Book of Ballads. 1910.

53. Old Robin of Portingale

GOD! let never soe old a man

Marry soe young a wife

As did old Robin of Portingale!

He may rue all the days of his life.

For the Mayor’s daughter of Lin, God wot,

He chose her to his wife,

And thought to have lived in quietnesse

With her all the dayes of his life.

III

They had not in their wed-bed laid,

Scarcely were both on sleepe,

But up she rose, and forth she goes

To Sir Gyles, and fast can weepe.

Saies, ‘Sleepe you, wake you, faire Sir Gyles?

Or be you not within?

[Or hear you not your true love

That tirleth at the pin?’]—

‘But I am waking, sweete,’ he said,

‘Lady, what is your will?’—

I have unbethought me of a wile

How my wed lord we shall spill.

‘Four and twenty knights,’ she sayes,

‘That dwells about this towne,

E’en four and twenty of my next cozens

Will help to ding him downe.’

VII

With that beheard his little foot-page,

Was watering his master’s steed;

Soe [sore a hearing it was to him]

His very heart did bleed.

VIII

He mournèd, sikt, and wept full sore;

I swear by the Holy Rood

The teares he for his master wept

Were blent water and bloude.

With that beheard his dear mastèr

As he in his garden sate;

Sayes, ‘Ever alack, my little page,

What causes thee to weepe?

‘Hath any one done to thee wronge,

Any of thy fellowes here?

Or is any of thy good friends dead,

What makes thee shed such teares?

‘Or if it be my head-cookes-man

Griev’d againe he shall be,

Nor noe man within my house

Shall doe wrong unto thee.’—

XII

‘But it is not your head-cookes-man,

Nor none of his degree;

But or tomorrow, ere it be noone

You are deemèd to die.

XIII

‘And of that thanke your head-stewàrd,

And, after, your ladie fair.’—

‘If it be true, my little foot-page,

Of my land I’ll make thee heir.’—

XIV

‘If it be not true, my deare master,

God let me never thye.’—

‘If it be not true, thou little foot-page,

A dead corse shalt thou be.’

He callèd down his head-cookes-man

In kitchen supper to dress;

‘All and anon, my deere master!

Anon at your request!’—

XVI

[‘Let supper be drest, and of the best

Let it preparèd be]

And call you downe my faire lady,

This night to supp with mee.’

XVII

And downe then came that fair lady,

’Was clad all in purple and palle;

The rings that were upon her fingers

Cast light thorrow the hall.

XVIII

‘What is your will, my owne wed lord,

What is your will with mee?’—

‘’Tis I am sicke, fayre lady,

Sore sicke and like to dye.’—

XIX

‘But an you be sicke, my owne wed lord,

Soe sore it grieveth mee;

But my five maidens and my selfe

[Will bedd you presentlye].

‘And at the waking of your first sleepe

You shall have a hott drinke made,

And at the waking of your next sleepe

Your sorrowes will have a slake.’

XXI

He put a silk cote on his backe

’Was thirteen inches folde,

And put a steele cap upon his head

’Was gilded with good red gold.

XXII

And he layd a bright browne sword by his side,

And another at his feete,

And full well knew Old Robin then

Whether he shold wake or sleepe.

XXIII

And about the middle time of the night

Came twenty-four Knights in;

Sir Gyles he was the foremost man,

Soe well he knew that ginne.

XXIV

Old Robin with a bright browne sword

Sir Gyles’ head he did winne,

Soe did he all those twenty-four,

Ne’er a one went quicke out [agen];

XXV

None but one little foot-page

Crept forth at a window of stone;

And he had two armes when he came in

And [when he went out he had one].

100

XXVI

Upp then came that ladie light,

With torches burning bright;

Shee thought to have brought Sir Gyles a drinke,

But shee found her owne wed Knight.

XXVII

And the first thing that shee stumbled upon

105

Was of Sir Gyles his foote;

Sayes, ‘Ever alacke, and woe is me,

Here lies my sweet hart-roote!’

XXVIII

And the second thing shee stumbled upon

Was of Sir Gyles his head;

110

Sayes, ‘Ever alacke, and woe is me,

Here lyes my true-love deade!’

XXIX

He cut the papps beside her brest,

And bade her wish her will;

And he cutt the eares beside her heade,

115

And bade her wish on still.

XXX

‘Mickle is the men’s blood I have spent

To doe thee and me some good’;

Sayes, ‘Ever alacke, my fayre lady,

I thinke that I was woode!’

120

XXXI

And he shope the cross on his right sho’lder

Of the white flesh and the redd,

And he went him into the Holy Land,

Wheras Christ was quicke and deade.

GLOSS: unbethought] bethought. ding] smite. sikt] sighed. againe] in return. deemèd] doomed. thye] thrive. palle] fine cloth. ginne] gin, contrivance, here a door-latch. quicke] alive. hart-roote] heart-root, dear one. woode] mad

CONTENTS · BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

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