There were four of us about that bed; The mass-priest knelt at the side, I and his mother stood at the head, Over his feet lay the bride; We were quite sure that he was dead, Though his eyes were open wide. He did not die in the night, He did not die in the day, But in the morning twilight His spirit pass'd away, When neither sun nor moon was bright, And the trees were merely grey. He was not slain with the sword, Knight's axe, or the knightly spear, Yet spoke he never a word After he came in here; I cut away the cord From the neck of my brother dear. He did not strike one blow, For the recreants came behind, In a place where the hornbeams grow, A path right hard to find, For the hornbeam boughs swing so, That the twilight makes it blind. They lighted a great torch then, When his arms were pinion'd fast, Sir John the knight of the Fen, Sir Guy of the Dolorous Blast, With knights threescore and ten, Hung brave Lord Hugh at last. I am threescore and ten, And my hair is all turn'd grey, But I met Sir John of the Fen Long ago on a summer day, And am glad to think of the moment when I took his life away. I am threescore and ten, And my strength is mostly pass'd, But long ago I and my men, When the sky was overcast, And the smoke roll'd over the reeds of the fen, Slew Guy of the Dolorous Blast. And now, knights all of you, I pray you pray for Sir Hugh, A good knight and a true, And for Alice, his wife, pray too. THE EVE OF CRECY. Gold on her head, and gold on her feet, And gold where the hems of her kirtle meet, And a golden girdle round my sweet;-- _Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._ Margaret's maids are fair to see, Freshly dress'd and pleasantly; Margaret's hair falls down to her knee;-- _Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._ If I were rich I would kiss her feet, I would kiss the place where the gold hems meet, And the golden girdle round my sweet-- _Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._ Ah me! I have never touch'd her hand; When the arriere-ban goes through the land, Six basnets under my pennon stand;-- _Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._ And many an one grins under his hood: "Sir Lambert de Bois, with all his men good, Has neither food nor firewood;"-- _Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._ If I were rich I would kiss her feet, And the golden girdle of my sweet, And thereabouts where the gold hems meet;-- _Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._ Yet even now it is good to think, While my few poor varlets grumble and drink In my desolate hall where the fires sink;-- _Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._ Of Margaret sitting glorious there, In glory of gold and glory of hair, And glory of glorious face most fair;-- _Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._