Sir Roderick Fowle — A Legend of the Olden Time
I.
Sir Roderick Fowle has returned from the East,
Where believers are fighting the Paynim;
Though they slaughtered his squire, and they wounded his beast,
No Saracen foeman has slain him.
II.
He has crossed the salt seas, and has come to the land
Where no man of battle afraid is,
But all have, in war, a keen blade and strong hand,
And, in peace, a true heart for the ladies.
III.
To the land of the Gaul is Sir Roderick come
(Concluded his Saracen fighting),
And with joy and delight is struck perfectly dumb,
On the shores of his country alighting—
IV.
The land where he’d lived as an innocent child
(And now he’s a vigorous man, see!),
Where Ida, the lovely, had first on him smiled
And captured his heart and his fancy.
V.
Sweet Ida, the daughter of Montmolon’s lord
(How blest to possess such a daughter!),
Was fairest of fair demoiselles—in a word,
All the marrying bachelors sought her.
VI.
But “attentions” she cared for but little, said she,
And, really, seemed scarcely to heed’em;
And for marrying! oh! ’twas like “felo de se,”
If you could keep your spinsterly freedom.
VII.
So she turned up her aquiline nose at them all,
And refused a round dozen of offers
From lords and from knights, who would constantly fall
At her feet with their hearts and their coffers.
VIII.
Till fate in her way threw Sir Roderick Fowle,
Before he departed this war on,
Then love made the damsel as blind as an owl,
And she promised herself to the Baron.
IX.
The war was declared—there was no time to woo,
When legions and armies were forming,
But, handsome and bold, he knew well what to do,
So he carried the fortress by storming.
X.
And she promised to wed, if he shouldn’t be dead,
When the Christians had settled the Paynim.
He must go there, he said; but she wanted, instead,
By her apron-string still to detain him.
XI.
But he’d promised to go, and he would, and he must
(These men are such obstinate cattle!),
So his heart to her keeping the lover did trust,
And set off, like a man, to the battle.
XII.
He went, and he came, and sustained his great name,
For when was a Fowle e’er behindhand?
And returned to receive the sweet laurels of fame
From his Ida’s most willing and kind hand.
XIII.
When a man’s seeking laurels, to keep him at bayIs a deed most exceedingly cruel,
So we’ll hasten our baron along on his way
To the casket which held his bright jewel.
XIV.
Lofty and high were the Montmolon towers,
And fortified, too, beyond measure,
Lest any bold lord of the neighbouring powers
Should harry the Montmolon treasure.
XV.
Sir Roderick gazed on the gloomy old wall,
Which the ivy was slowly corroding,
When a sight met his eyes which his heart did appal,
And fill with a fearful foreboding.
XVI.
Where the Montmolon banner of old used to wave,
And merrily flaunt in the breezes,
No banner hung now—all was still as the grave,
Or the form that death’s quietude seizes.
XVII.
The place looked so bleak—’tis a sad thing to speak,
But sad things sometimes must be spoken;
And the winds they did shriek through that castle antique,
For there wasn’t a window unbroken!
XVIII.
The mark of a foe did Sir Roderick know
Full well—far too well to mistake it;
And he groaned deep and low, in sad accents of woe,
Ere he turned round his horse to forsake it.
XIX.
But he stopped; for a groan quite as sad as his own
Seemed to come from the shrubberies near him,
And an old man he spied, sitting there all alone,
Who appeared in no manner to fear him.
XX.
He approached, and affright half gave way to delight
At the chance his lost bride to regain her,
When he recognised quite, in this dolorous wight,
A Montmolon former retainer.
XXI.
“Old man!” he cried out, “what’s this fuss all about?
And has there been any disaster?
You seemed crippled, no doubt: is’t rheumatics or gout?
And where are your mistress and master?”
XXII.
With a guttural sigh, like one going to die,
The man raised him up on his knees, and
Thus made him reply, though the news, by-the-bye,
He scarce could get out of his weasand.
XXIII.
“I’ve a sad tale to crack. Noble sir, you’ve come back
To a house sacked from basement to attics;
Too long do I lack kitchen chimney and jack
For gout—let alone the rheumatics!
XXIV.
“I speak but with pain, for I’m slaughtered and slain
(Just look at my garments all gory),
But my breath I would fain a while longer retain
Till I’ve told you our terrible story.
XXV.
“Fair Ida, I fear, you will scarcely find here,
Though the room which was hers still you may see,
For ’tis nearly a year since with bow and with spear
Hither hastened Sir Marmaduke Tracy.
XXVI.
“With soldiers in scores, ammunition, and stores,
He attacked our unfortunate village;
He battered our doors (’twas the greatest of bores).
And allowed all his people to pillage.
XXVII.
“When the storm ’gan to lower, folks fled to the tower,
Young and old the same thing very soon did;
We did all in our power, and young Ida’s own bower
Was turned into a ward for the wounded.
XXVIII.
“For months four or five we continued to strive;
None ventured on shirking or shamming,
Till one-half of our hive were no longer alive—
Consumed between firing and famine.
XXIX.
“When our lord ’gainst the rout could no longer hold out,
He gave in, like a sensible covey;
No food was about, save one bottle of stout,
Half a loaf, and a pot of anchovy.
XXX.
“Then at length did we let (though with wondrous regret)
Sir Marmaduke through the portcullis;
And the treatment we met no one there will forget,
Unless he a regular gull is.
XXXI.
“The Tracy began, and took ev’ry tenth man ‘
Of the Baron of Montmolon’s people,
Saying, ‘Fly, if ye can, for ye soon will be dan—
Cling from top of the neighbouring steeple.
XXXII.
“‘Since ye foolishly list, Tracy’s arms to resist,
Ye shall see how his mercy shall treat ye;
And your wives shall be kissed, if by them ye are missed
In your homes, while the carrion eat ye.’
XXXIII.
“His men had the knack; not a rope was too slack,
Not a victim could loosen or slip cord.
Our baron looked black; but his arms ’hind his back
Were fastened together with whipcord.
XXXIV.
“He hanged these poor chaps, but I fancy that, perhaps,
The other men’s lot was the sorest;
Without clothes, shoes, or caps, but with plenty of slaps,
He turned them adrift in the forest.
XXXV.
“Some starved, sank, and died; some few went beside
Themselves with cold, hunger, and sorrow.
’Twas little you spied of the Montmolon pride,
When you looked at this place on the morrow.
XXXVI.
“That truculent Goth, Sir Tracy, took both
Our lord and his beautiful daughter.
‘To wed me,’ he quoth, ‘though the damsel be loth,
To reason I soon shall have brought her.’
XXXVII.
“I, escaping from hurt, more by chance than desert
(My brother on Tracy’s estate is),
Have lived, I assert, sitting here in the dirt,
Upon nothing but berries and praties.
XXXVIII.
“I was wounded, indeed; don’t you see how I bleed?
And I’ve had ne’er a surgeon, which is hard;
But my master’s sad need, and the loss of his breed,
’Tis that, sir, which sticks in my gizzard.
XXXIX.
“My strength ‘gins to fail: want of beef and of ale
(How well I remember the brewin’!)
My frame doth assail; but I’ve told you the tale,
And your eyes may behold the sad ruin.”
XL.
He stopped: faint and sore, he could utter no more,
But sank on the ground, softly sighing;
His troubles were o’er: he was turned of four-score,
And was dead ere he knew he was dying.
XLI.
Sir Roderick stood at the tidings aghast:
Sad change from glad anticipation;
But he spoke out at last; not too loud or too fast,
But in accents of deep indignation.
XLII.
“By all that is holy, by all that is blue,
By the eyes of adorable Ida,
Sir Marmaduke Tracy shall bitterly rue
The moment when first he espied her!
XLIII.
“I vow and declare, and I solemnly swear,
That, fearless of dagger or bullet,
I’ll rout out that bear from his murderous lair,
And slit his detestable gullet.
XLIV.
“My life to the project henceforth I devote;
All else to this one shall knock under,
Till I fasten my hand on his treacherous throat
And tear the vile spoiler asunder!
XLV.
“When next here I tread, it shall be to be wed;
But I mustn’t stay now any longer;
This old fellow’s dead—there’s no more to be said,
He has perished of wounds and of hunger.”
XLVI.
Then he turned his horse round (who sprang off with a bound,
Accustomed in battle to dash on),
And with clattering sound, galloped over the ground
In a most irrepressible passion.
XLVII.
Two months had elapsed since that terrible day
When the Montmolon castle was taken,
And the baron and Ida were carried away
With small prospect of “saving their bacon.”
XLVIII.
The Tracy had taken them off to the rock
On which his own castle was builded;
Which, he boasted, was safe from an enemy’s shock,
Whatever his valour or skill did.
XLIX.
Glenlighton its name; ’twas a beautiful place,
As you saw when you came nigh and nigher it;
But delectable Ida averted her face,
Too wrapt in her grief to admire it.
L.
Arrived, they were placed in a large suite of rooms,
Locked up, and a strong guard set by ’em,
And for weeks they saw none but retainers and grooms,
Who were ordered with food to supply ’em.
LI.
For Sir Marmaduke Tracy had reason to ride
To some lord’s in the neighbouring valley:
Ere he thought of a bride, he the spoils must divide
With the friends who’d connived at his sally.
LII.
But returning (too soon!) one fine morning in June,
When brightly and warmly the sun shone,
He came whistling a tune all along the saloon,
And joined the small party at luncheon.
LIII.
“Now, Baron,” quoth he, “prithee hearken to me:
To escape you may shortly the way see:
If you e’er would be free, you must quickly agree,
That your daughter becomes Lady Tracy.
LIV.
“I am elderly, true; it were better for you
That death hadn’t taken my son John.
But refuse! if you do, why, the day you shall rue
In a most insalubrious dungeon.”
LV.
Says the Baron, “I burn your assault to return,
And, spite of your luncheons and he cook,
My child will soon learn your proposals to spurn,
You lubberly son of a sea-cook!
LVI.
“The battle you’ve won, vile son of a gun,
Though more by your cunning than merit;
But, much though you’ve done, I can tell you that none
Can break the true Montmolon spirit.
LVII.
“Sir Guy de la Vaux, I assuredly know,
Will avenge the foul trick that you’ve played me;
And the Lord Montereaux to my rescue will go,
Though houseless and homeless you’ve made me.
LVIII.
“No daughter of mine to a man will incline
Who has murdered her father’s retainers.
Those are my views in fine; my brave girl, I opine,
Will in language more pretty explain hers!”
LIX.
Then Ida, “Papa, all your sentiments are
My own—you are always so ready.
And besides, much I fear, that though mighty in war,
Sir Marmaduke’s rather unsteady.
LX.
“And I’m bound to declare, though hardly I dare
(And my courage is quite down at zero),
For another I care, and it wouldn’t be fair
To give up my faithful young hero.
LXI.
“I met him, you know, nearly five years ago,
Abroad, at the Henley regatta,
So I’m bound to reply to Sir Marmaduke ‘No,’
Although his attentions may flatter.”
LXII.
The Tracy laughed loud at the maiden so proud,
But, says he, “Come, a truce to your chaffing;
It must be allowed that you don’t seem much cowed,
But you’ll find it no matter for laughing.
LXIII.
“You, madam, when cool, your affections must school
To follow Sir Marmaduke’s pleasure;
And, Baron, you fool and cantankerous mule,
In a dungeon shall ponder at leisure.
LXIV.
“Nor think you secure that your friends will be truer
Than others have been in like cases;
Sir Guy is too poor, and I’m perfectly sure
’Twill be long ere the Tracy he faces.
LXV.
“And the Lord Montereaux died lately, I know
(He always was rather dyspeptic);
’Tis a good week ago since they popped him below,
Carried off by a fit epileptic.
LXVI.
“’Tis never my bent, you must know, to relent,
And trouble you’re surely enough in,
So your aid must be lent to make Ida consent,
Unless you’re a regular muffin.
LXVII.
“Meantime, to a dungeon I’ll order you off,
Where the damp very constant and dense is;
And when crippled entirely with fever and cough,
You’ll probably come to your senses.”
LXVIII.
He spoke, and withdrew, and the baron they threw
Into dungeon both damp and unpleasant;
And left him to ponder, as well he might do,
On the change from the past to the present.
LXIX.
Still, with wonderful pluck, to his orders he stuck
That his child shouldn’t marry the tyrant;
And Ida, sweet duck, though quite “down on her luck,”
Still frowned on the daring aspirant.
LXX.
Then Sir Tracy, irate, said she tempted her fate,
Declining so firmly to choose him;
For he ne’er could abate in his love for a mate,
Who he knew would be sorry to lose him.
LXXI.
Ten days he’d allow her, he swore, when much vexed,
And partially drunk on his own ale;
But each day she refused to be his, on the next
Should be wrenched from her father a toe-nail!
LXXII.
Now the baron was gouty and tender of feet,
A man, too, of delicate nurture,
And to injure him thus would be making complete
The system of underground torture.
LXXIII.
So Ida she stood on the turreted wall
On that very identical even,
And loudly for aid and assistance did call
On Roderick Fowle and on Heaven.
LXXIV.
What is it she sees through the leaves of the trees?
By Jove! ’tis a warrior’s banner,
And men, thick as bees, drawing nigh by degrees
In a most unmistakable manner.
LXXV.
She views them approaching the castle so dread,
And prays they may soon overwhelm it;
For she sees they are led by a chief at their head
With a Hen, painted large, on his helmet.