Of all the knights of Southern France
Who measured sword or broke a lance
In tilt or tourney,
Count Beville Bleyde would bow to none:
No matter how—he always won.
And he would journey,
On bellicose adventure bent,
To places on the Continent.
He knew the Lowlands, Russia, Spain,
Made war in Flanders, and had slain
A hundred knights of Acquitaine—
_And_ single-handed.
And once he kept, at Tinchebrai,
A Norman regiment at bay:
You could not count his blows, they say,
So fast they landed.
O he was brave; but rumour hints
(And as he has been dead long since
I may be candid)
That there was one whose temper made
The bold Sir Beville sore afraid—
It was his Countess, Madam Bleyde.
[Illustration: _A Norman regiment at bay._]