Nor fully to game mine owne trewe shape, Such was her devilish skille; Until he wolde yielde to be ruled by mee, And let mee have all my wille. She witch'd my brother to a carlish boore, And made him stiffe and stronge; And built him a bowre on magicke grounde, To live by rapine and wronge. But now the spelle is broken throughe, And wronge is turnde to righte; Henceforth I shall bee a faire ladyè, And hee a gentle knighte. Another ballad, equally celebrated, though not so beautiful, also relates to King Arthur's residence at Carlisle, and to the truth of the imputation cast upon Queen Guinevere by the "grimme baròne" of the last story. It is entitled "The Boy and the Mantle," commencing somewhat uncouthly:-- In the third day of May, To Carleile did come A kind curteous child That cold much of wisdome. This "child" brings that wondrous mantle which no lady who is not chaste can wear; and it is tried upon all the dames of the court. When Queen Guinevere put it on, it was suddenly rent from the top to the bottom, and turned in succession all manner of colours, and is told as follows:-- God speed thee, king Arthur, Sitting at thy meate; And the goodly queene Guinevere, I cannott her forgett. I tell you, lords, in this hall; I bid you all to "heede;" Except you be the more surer Is you for to dread. He plucked out of his "porterner," And longer wold not dwell, He pulled forth a pretty mantle, Betweene two nut-shells. Have thou here, king Arthur; Have thou here of mee, Give itt to thy comely queene Shapen as itt is alreadye. Itt shall never become that wiffe, That hath once done amisse. Then every knight in the king's court Began to care for "his." Forth came dame Guinevere; To the mantle shee her "hied;" The ladye shee was newfangle, But yett she was affrayd. When she had taken the mantle; She stoode as shee had beene madd; It was from the top to the toe As sheeres had itt shread. One while was it "gule;" Another while was itt greene; Another while was it wadded: Ill itt did her beseeme. Another while was it blacke And bore the worst hue: By my troth, quoth king Arthur, I thinke thou be not true. She threw down the mantle, That bright was of blee; Fast, with a rudd redd, To her chamber can shee flee. She curst the weaver, and the walker That clothe that had wrought; And bade a vengeance on his crowne, That hither had it broughte.