The Merry Gentleman

A Story in Rhyme, and in Three Parts PART I. Spring had come again and at Greenwich one day There were revels out on the green, A May-pole dance and a mummers' play And cherry-sack sent by the Queen; (It added much to the gaiety The cherry-sack sent by the Queen.)

Little Barbara Crewe of old London Town Spent the day there with Cobbler Greer; There was no one else either up or down To heed her or reckon her dear;— As far as she knew there was no one else In the distant lands, or the near.

For it chanced in the time that the black plague came, Sweeping city and country-side, That this child alone of the clan of her name Drifted back from death's ebbing tide, And old Greer had found her frightened and lost, And had taken her home to abide.

For the ancient was kindly, and all day long While he cobbled the broken shoes, He shielded her well from want and from wrong,— Though he drank to banish the blues. When worries were plenty, and pennies few Why he drank to banish the blues.

He bought little Barbara a horn-book to read And a scrivener taught her to write, While a pretty wench in bitterest need, With a ragged shawl of scarlet and white Taught her the steps of an old Spanish dance, And a prayer when she knelt at night.

Beauty had marked this stray child with its sign, Its white and its rose and its gold; Three years had gone by;—perhaps she was nine And she grew like a flower from the mould, And there in the dim little cobbler shop Her lovely days were unrolled.

She enchanted the heart of old Gaffer Greer For where he had lived all alone, She brought the sweet of the spring of the year And echoes from youth that had flown. To the old one battered and worn by life She brought dreams of things that had flown.

Now he borrowed a donkey and rickety cart And they went off to Greenwich Green, But once at the revels, drifted apart For there was so much to be seen; And the ancient's desire was towards cherry-sack, And the child's—towards the young May Queen.

But every gay holiday passes, and so When the gloaming was drawing near Little Barbara hunted high and low For some sign of old Gaffer Greer. And she found him at last in the donkey-cart Overcome by the cherry-sack's cheer.

Then the little grey donkey would not depart But laid himself down on the grass; With his harness loose and Greer in the cart He took orders from no young lass— He was happy there, and could sleep all night Unheeding whate'er came to pass.

So Barbara made up her mind to walk back The six miles by the King's high-way, For Greer would not waken (with bones on the rack) And return until break of day— But for little maids 'twas best to go home And not wait for the break of day.

PART II. The twilight was long and silvery-bright For the moon like a sickle swung low— And the road-side hedges were sweet and white As the hawthorn was full ablow; O it seemed to Barbara a fairy world Where she had a long way to go!

And she followed the London-bound crowd along Where it flowed as a tide to the sea; Then because she was tired she sang a song For that helps wherever you be— And when the miles are terribly long Why one sings the more cheerily.

She sang like a bird in the greening spring And her song owed as little to art;— But the tune was old, with a salty ring, While the words were both sweet and tart— And a horse-man reined up and said, "May I sing That old song with you, sweetheart?"

A goodly rider he seemed to the child When he leaned from his saddle and spoke, His face was dazzlingly bright as he smiled And he looked as strong as an oak! (But his horse had a rolling violet eye And was one that no child would stroke.)

He swept her a bow with his wide feathered hat And spoke in most courteous tone, "Come, fair one!" he said, "By this and by that, You should not be travelling alone. 'Tis a rough-going crowd and night is at hand, While no princess should travel alone!"

"So! Give me your hand! Take the stirrup and spring, You have naught to fear. Just obey. At my saddle-bow you can sit and sing While we gallop and gallop away! A song like yours makes a long road short Though one goes till the break o' day."

Then Barbara looked gravely up in his eyes Where she sat at the saddle-head For she had obeyed him in soft surprise And not ever a word had said, But her old sea chanty had vanished and gone While memory had come in its stead.

For often her father had lifted her so To his saddle—in beautiful years, And the swift remembrance came like a blow That blinded her eyes with tears. But the rider cried: "Ho! my Princess! What now? Such hot weeping my poor heart sears!"

"O good sir," she said, "I remember too well How I rode with my father in May.— But the Black Death came—and the tolling bell And all—all were taken one day. So I followed the hearse to see where they went Till Gaffer Greer took me away."

The light hoofs clattered along the King's road And the rider held fast to the child. Beside them the tide of the people flowed But he held her the closer and smiled— "Little Princess," he said, "'Tis a weary world But still by much sweetness beguiled."

"Come! Away with remembrance of death and grief Sing thy old sea music with me— 'Tis the merry month of blossom and leaf And the high-road is wide and free— Come, Little Princess, and I'll sing too For the song's in my memory."

"But prythee, I be not a princess!" she said, "I be only Barbara Crewe." "Well, Od' so!" he smiled and nodded his head "No princess is sweeter than you." Then he laughed so gaily the echoes rang As they rode through the dusky blue.

So singing the ballad they galloped along While the crowd kept silent to hear, For they never had known a more swinging song Or voices more heavenly clear— And the dim lights of London came in sight And the smoke from chimneys blew near.

Then the man said: "Princess, I beg of your grace, Let me go still further with thee— I would break my fast at some quiet place Ere I travel on speedily." "Good sir," she replied, "Be our welcome guest, Gaffer Greer would say so, with me."

"'Tis a little old darksome cobbler shop Where we live—but 'twill serve for the night And gladly and gladly I bid thee stop For 'twill be a most dear delight! I will give thee ale and good bread and cheese And a bed that is warm and white."

PART III. The rider dismounted,—lifted Barbara down, Then unsaddled his horse for the hour— "So—this low little house in London Town," He smiled—"is my sweet maid's bower? Well—for me to-night, O most charming one, It becomes a high conning tower."

They entered and Barbara bade him to rest In the cobbler's worn hickory chair. She lit a candle and brought him the best Of their simple everyday fare— And he ate and drank very lustily While they made a right happy pair.

Then he took from a pocket his mellowed pipe And smoked "till the air was blue." "Now Princess," he said, "the hour is ripe For a measure of merriment too. He who dines and wines like a Lord, my fair, Must have mirth and amusement too."

"Perhaps I could dance—an it please you," she said, "Just an old Spanish tango or so— But it needs a shawl and some lace on my head And a skirt that whirls to and fro—" "We'll imagine all that;—dance, dance for me then Little Princess," he said, "ere I go!"

So Barbara danced in the candle-gleam And her shadow danced on the wall— While he whistled a tango sweet as a dream With a deep linting rise and fall— And he clapped when she ended: "Bravo, my fair! Come now! Take your curtain call."

"But will you not dance for me too?" she pled, "A horn-pipe—or old country reel?" "I will dance perhaps soon, little maid," he said "Where I touch neither toe nor heel;— At the end of a rope I may dance very soon On no ground that a man may feel."

"But ah, little Barbara—Barbara Crewe, There is more—far more you must hear— For 'tis strange—but I have the same name too —We're the last of our people my dear.— And I was away in an Eastern land When the quick Death took them my dear.

"I am the black sheep of all our race— Ay! The heart-break—the prayed-for, the-stray. When the prodigal son came home to his place Disaster had swept all away.— But in truth I learned there was one child left And I searched for her many a day.

"Then you sang on the road an old song I knew As you journeyed so bravely alone;— You were like one I loved;—your eyes were as blue And your hair was like gold-thread—wind blown— When you told me your name I had never a doubt But that I had come to my own."

Then the child looked up in his dark young face And a quick chill struck at her heart;— "But where do you go," she cried, "from this place? And why should you ever depart?" "I'm a man pursued, my sweet one," he said, "And a dead man, unless I start."

"You are Nicholas Crewe!" she cried, "father's friend, His cousin—adored past belief! O you cannot go now! This is not the end! If you go I will die of grief." "Little princess," he smiled, "we break not on that, As the ships break up on a reef."

"But listen—you bring me new hope—strange hope, Come! Get me the cobbler's best!— With his coat and small-clothes I'll try to cope With his hat and boots and the rest. And then I will make for an out-bound ship And they'll lose the scent they have guessed.

Nay ask me no questions—for questions I ban— But this much I tell thee alone— I have fought a duel and slain a man Little maid—who stood near to the throne, Ay! It was a fair fight and had to be— But he stood over-near to the throne.

And so I am followed.—But you saved the day When you rode at my saddle head. No one dreamed that I would a-singing go— A man who was marked for the dead. They lost my trail on the King's highway— When you rode at my saddle head."

She tremblingly brought him the cobbler's best black, His boots and his neck cloth and hat.— "O dress quickly!" she cried, "Then I will come back." "Ay!" he laughed, "And make certain of that! I would not start on my journey at all Unless I made certain of that!"

So he doffed the beautiful cavalier's dress And put on the sombre attire, For old Greer was of Puritan breed, more or less, And held to high heaven, and hell-fire. (On Sabbath each week he took Barbara to church To hear of God's heaven and fire.)

Never Puritan looked like this man who now stood Transformed in the little dim place. His hair was square-cut; he had done what he could To harden the lines of his face— He seemed like a tree made of lightness and strength And a dark and infinite grace.

"Come Princess!" he called, "It is time to away! Look! Who would know me my sweet? And listen for I have somewhat to say— E'er I take to the cobble-stoned street, And make my way to the dock and the ship Where new hope and liberty meet.

'Tis true I have broken some laws, but these sins Have not been the blackest, my dear; And he who lives and atones—well he wins To heaven, when life has grown sear. 'Twould do little good to hang me on high Nor bring back a dead man—I fear.

"On the morrow give the old cobbler this gold,— Though 'twill only repay him in part— And this for thyself.—Also tightly hold This paper, and learn it by heart. These are directions that you must obey So hold them, and learn them by heart.

"I will leave my horse for the cobbler to sell— In return for these desperate black things; And hark! As surely as all goes well I'll come back should I have to find wings! When the hue and cry dies down, princess, I'll come back should I have to find wings!

"I'll take you away to some beautiful land Where a princess is safe from harm, But now—O how should you understand That the law has a long swift arm?— When it seeks a man there is only the sea Where his soul is free of alarm."

All ivory white she stood for a space And had never a word to say. Then against his brown hand she laid her face And said: "I will wait for that day.— But go now—Nicholas! O quickly go— I would know you are safely away!"

"Brave heart!" he whispered, and touched her hair, "You alone have had faith in me." And he swung down the street and left the child there Too blind with her tears to see— Then through them she smiled, "I know he'll come back Though he said not what day it would be."