AND
OTHER BALLADS
BY
GEORGE BORROW
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION
1913
_Copyright in the United States of America_
_by Houghton Mifflin & Co. for Clement Shorter_.
THE BROTHER AVENGED
I stood before my master’s board,
The skinker’s office plying;
The herald-men brought tidings then
That my brother was murdered lying.
I followed my lord unto his bed,
By his dearest down he laid him;
Then my courser out of the stall I led,
And with saddle and bit arrayed him.
I sprang upon my courser’s back,
With the spur began to goad him;
And ere I drew his bridle to,
Full fifteen leagues I rode him.
And when I came to the noisy hall
Where the Kemps carouse were keeping,
O then I saw my mother dear
O’er the corse of my brother weeping.
Then I laid an arrow on my good bow,
The bow that never deceived me;
And straight I shot the King’s Kempions twelve,
Of my brother who had bereaved me.
And then to the Ting I rode away,
Where the judges twelve were seated;
Of six to avenge my brother I begged,
And of six protection entreated.
For the third time rode I to the Ting,
For deep revenge I lusted;
Up stood the liege-man of the King,
And at me fiercely thrusted.
Up stood the liege-man of the King,
With a furious thrust toward me;
And the Judges twelve rose in the Ting,
And an outlaw’d man declared me.
Then I laid an arrow on my good bow,
And the bow to its utmost bent I;
And into the heart of the King’s liege-man
The sharp, sharp arrow sent I.
Then away from the Ting amain I sped,
And my good steed clomb in hurry;
There was nothing for me but to hasten and flee,
And myself ’mong the woods to bury.
And hidden for eight long years I lay
Amid the woods so lonely;
I’d nothing to eat in that dark retreat
But grass and green leaves only.
I’d nothing to eat in that dark retreat,
Save the grass and leaves I devoured;
No bed-fellows crept to the place where I slept,
But bears that brooned and roared.
So near at hand was the holy tide
Of our Lady of mercies tender;
The King of the Swedes his followers leads,
And rides to the Church in splendour.
So I laid an arrow on my good bow,
As I looked from the gap so narrow;
And into the heart of the Swedish King
I sent the yard-long arrow.
Now lies on the ground the Swedish King,
And the blood from his death-wound showers;
So blythe is my breast, though still I must rest
Amid the forest bowers.