The Knyghte and the Taylzeour's Daughter.

Did you ever hear the story— Old the legend is, and true— How a knyghte of fame and glory All aside his armour threw; Spouted spear and pawned habergeon, Pledged his sword and surcoat gay, Sate down cross-legged on the shop-board, Sate and stitched the livelong day?

"Taylzeour! not one single shilling Does my breeches-pocket hold: I to pay am really willing, If I only had the gold. Farmers none can I encounter, Graziers there are none to kill; Therefore, prithee, gentle taylzeour, Bother not about thy bill."

"Good Sir Knyghte, just once too often Have you tried that slippery trick; Hearts like mine you cannot soften, Vainly do you ask for tick. Christmas and its bills are coming, Soon will they be showering in; Therefore, once for all, my rum un, I expect you'll post the tin.

"Mark, Sir Knyghte, that gloomy bayliffe In the palmer's amice brown; He shall lead you unto jail, if Instantly you stump not down." Deeply swore the young crusader, But the taylzeour would not hear; And the gloomy, bearded bayliffe Evermore kept sneaking near.

"Neither groat nor maravedi Have I got my soul to bless; And I'd feel extremely seedy, Languishing in vile duresse. Therefore listen, ruthless taylzeour, Take my steed and armour free, Pawn them at thy Hebrew uncle's, And I'll work the rest for thee."

Lightly leaped he on the shop-board, Lightly crooked his manly limb, Lightly drove the glancing needle Through the growing doublet's rim Gaberdines in countless number Did the taylzeour knyghte repair, And entirely on cucumber And on cabbage lived he there.

Once his weary task beguiling With a low and plaintive song, That good knyghte o'er miles of broadcloth Drove the hissing goose along; From her lofty latticed window Looked the taylzeour's daughter down, And she instantly discovered That her heart was not her own.

"Canst thou love me, gentle stranger?" Picking at a pink she stood— And the knyghte at once admitted That he rather thought he could. "He who weds me shall have riches, Gold, and lands, and houses free." "For a single pair of—small-clothes, I would roam the world with thee!"

Then she flung him down the tickets Well the knyghte their import knew— "Take this gold, and win thy armour From the unbelieving Jew. Though in garments mean and lowly Thou wouldst roam the world with me, Only as a belted warrior, Stranger, will I wed with thee!"

At the feast of good Saint Stitchem, In the middle of the spring, There was some superior jousting, By the order of the King. "Valiant knyghtes!" proclaimed the monarch, "You will please to understand, He who bears himself most bravely Shall obtain my daughter's hand."

Well and bravely did they bear them, Bravely battled, one and all; But the bravest in the tourney Was a warrior stout and tall. None could tell his name or lineage, None could meet him in the field, And a goose regardant proper Hissed along his azure shield.

"Warrior, thou hast won my daughter!" But the champion bowed his knee, "Royal blood may not be wasted On a simple knyghte like me. She I love is meek and lowly; But her heart is kind and free; Also, there is tin forthcoming, Though she is of low degree."

Slowly rose that nameless warrior, Slowly turned his steps aside, Passed the lattice where the princess Sate in beauty, sate in pride. Passed the row of noble ladies, Hied him to an humbler seat, And in silence laid the chaplet At the taylzeour's daughter's feet.