Boncoeur it was with fifty men; Maltete was but one to ten, And his own folk prayed for grace, With empty hands in that lone place. _Deus est Deus pauperum._ "Grace shall ye have," Boncoeur said, "All of you but Evil-head." Lowly could that great lord be, Who could pray so well as he? _Deus est Deus pauperum._ Then could Maltete howl and cry, Little will he had to die. Soft was his speech, now it was late, But who had will to save Maltete? _Deus est Deus pauperum._ They brought him to the house again, And toward the road he looked in vain. Lonely and bare was the great highway, Under the gathering moonlight grey. _Deus est Deus pauperum._ They took off his gilt basnet, That he should die there was no let; They took off his coat of steel, A damned man he well might feel. _Deus est Deus pauperum._ "Will ye all be rich as kings, Lacking naught of all good things?" "Nothing do we lack this eve; When thou art dead, how can we grieve?" _Deus est Deus pauperum._ "Let me drink water ere I die, None henceforth comes my lips anigh." They brought it him in that bowl of wood. He said, "This is but poor men's blood!" _Deus est Deus pauperum._ They brought it him in the cup of gold. He said, "The women I have sold Have wept it full of salt for me; I shall die gaping thirstily." _Deus est Deus pauperum._ On the threshold of that poor homestead They smote off his evil head; They set it high on a great spear, And rode away with merry cheer. _Deus est Deus pauperum._ At the dawn, in lordly state, They rode to Maltete's castle-gate. "Whoso willeth laud to win, Make haste to let your masters in!" _Deus est Deus pauperum._ Forthwith opened they the gate, No man was sorry for Maltete. Boncoeur conquered all his lands, A good knight was he of his hands. _Deus est Deus pauperum._ Good men he loved, and hated bad; Joyful days and sweet he had; Good deeds did he plenteously; Beneath him folk lived frank and free. _Deus est Deus pauperum._ He lived long, with merry days; None said aught of him but praise. God on him have full mercy; A good knight merciful was he. _Deus est Deus pauperum._ The great lord, called Maltete, is dead; Grass grows above his feet and head, And a holly-bush grows up between His rib-bones gotten white and clean. _Deus est Deus pauperum._ A carle's sheep-dog certainly Is a mightier thing than he. Till London-bridge shall cross the Nen, Take we heed of such-like men. _Deus est Deus pauperum._ LOVE'S REWARD It was a knight of the southern land Rode forth upon the way When the birds sang sweet on either hand About the middle of the May. But when he came to the lily-close, Thereby so fair a maiden stood, That neither the lily nor the rose Seemed any longer fair nor good. "All hail, thou rose and lily-bough! What dost thou weeping here, For the days of May are sweet enow, And the nights of May are dear?" "Well may I weep and make my moan. Who am bond and captive here; Well may I weep who lie alone, Though May be waxen dear."