THE LEGENDE OF SIR GYLES GYLES.

Uppe, lazie loon! 'tis mornynge prime, The cockke of redde redde combe This thrice hath crowed—'tis past the time To drive the olde bulle home.

Goe fling a rope about his hornnes, And lead him safelie here: Long since Sir Gyles, who slumber scornes, Doth angle in the weir.

And, knaves and wenches, stay your din, Our Ladye is astir: For hark and hear her mandolin Behynde the silver fir.

His Spanish hat he bravelie weares, With feathere droopynge wide, In doublet fyne, Sir Valentyne Is seated by her side.

Small care they share, that blissfulle pair; She dons her kindest smyles; His songes invite and quite delighte The wyfe of old Sir Gyles.

But pert young pages point their thumbes, Her maids look glumme, in shorte All wondere how the good Knyghte comes To tarrie at his sporte.

There is a sudden stir at last; Men run—and then, with dread, They vowe Sir Gyles is dying fast! And then—Sir Gyles is dead!

The bulle hath caughte him near the thornes They call the Parsonne's Plotte; The bulle hath tossed him on his hornnes, Before the brute is shotte.

Now Ladye Gyles is sorelie tryd, And sinks beneath the shockke: She weeps from morn to eventyd, And then till crowe of cockke.

Again the sun returns, but though The merrie morninge smiles, No cockke will crow, no bulle will low Agen for pore Sir Gyles.

And now the knyghte, as seemeth beste, Is layd in hallowed mould; All in the mynstere crypt, where rest His gallant sires and old.

But first they take the olde bulle's skin And crest, to form a shroud: And when Sir Gyles is wrapped therein His people wepe aloud.

Sir Valentyne doth well incline To soothe my lady's woe; And soon she'll slepe, nor ever wepe, An all the cockkes sholde crowe.

Ay soone they are in wedlock tied, Full soon; and all, in fyne, That spouse can say to chere his bride, That sayth Sir Valentyne.

And gay agen are maids and men, Nor knyghte nor ladye mournes, Though Valentyne may trembel when He sees a bulle with hornnes.

My wife and I once visited The scene of all this woe, Which fell out (so the curate said) Four hundred years ago.

It needs no search to find a church Which all the land adorns, We passed the weir, I thought with fear About the olde bulle's hornnes.

No cock then crowed, no bull there lowed, But, while we paced the aisles, The curate told his tale, and showed A tablet to Sir Giles.