Will cling to me for ever; there, Is not that wrong turn'd right at last Through all these years, and I wash'd clean? Say, yea, Ellayne; the time is past, Since on that Christmas-day last year Up to your feet the fire crept, And the smoke through the brown leaves sere Blinded your dear eyes that you wept; Was it not I that caught you then, And kiss'd you on the saddle-bow? Did not the blue owl mark the men Whose spears stood like the corn a-row? This Oliver is a right good knight, And must needs beat me, as I fear, Unless I catch him in the fight, My father's crafty way: John, here! Bring up the men from the south gate, To help me if I fall or win, For even if I beat, their hate Will grow to more than this mere grin. THE LITTLE TOWER Up and away through the drifting rain! Let us ride to the Little Tower again, Up and away from the council board! Do on the hauberk, gird on the sword. The king is blind with gnashing his teeth, Change gilded scabbard to leather sheath: Though our arms are wet with the slanting rain, This is joy to ride to my love again: I laugh in his face when he bids me yield; Who knows one field from the other field, For the grey rain driveth all astray? Which way through the floods, good carle, I pray The left side yet! the left side yet! Till your hand strikes on the bridge parapet. Yea so: the causeway holdeth good Under the water? Hard as wood, Right away to the uplands; speed, good knight! Seven hours yet before the light. Shake the wet off on the upland road; My tabard has grown a heavy load. What matter? up and down hill after hill; Dead grey night for five hours still. The hill-road droppeth lower again, Lower, down to the poplar plain. No furlong farther for us to-night, The Little Tower draweth in sight; They are ringing the bells, and the torches glare, Therefore the roofs of wet slate stare. There she stands, and her yellow hair slantingly Drifts the same way that the rain goes by. Who will be faithful to us to-day, With little but hard glaive-strokes for pay? The grim king fumes at the council-board: Three more days, and then the sword; Three more days, and my sword through his head; And above his white brows, pale and dead, A paper crown on the top of the spire; And for her the stake and the witches' fire. Therefore though it be long ere day, Take axe and pick and spade, I pray. Break the dams down all over the plain: God send us three more days such rain! Block all the upland roads with trees; The Little Tower with no great ease Is won, I warrant; bid them bring Much sheep and oxen, everything The spits are wont to turn with; wine And wheaten bread, that we may dine