I would not be a crownËd king,
For all his gaudy gear;
I would not be that pampered thing,
His gew-gaw gold to wear:
But I would be where I can sing
Right merrily, all the year;
Where forest treen,
All gay and green,
Full blythely do me cheer.
I would not be a gentleman,
For all his hawks and hounds,—
For fear the hungry poor should ban
My halls and wide-parked grounds:
But I would be a merry man,
Among the wild wood sounds,—
Where free birds sing,
And echoes ring
While my axe from the oak rebounds.

I would not be a shaven priest,
For all his sloth-won tythe:
But while to me this breath is leased,
And these old limbs are lithe,—
Ere Death hath marked me for his feast,
And felled me with his scythe,—
I'll troll my song,
The leaves among,
All in the forest blythe.
————
"Well done, well done!" bold Thorold cried,
When the woodman ceased to sing;
"By'r Lady! it warms the Saxon tide
In our veins to hear thee bring
These English thoughts so freely out!
Thy health, good Snell!"—and a merry shout
For honest boldness, truth, and worth,
The baron's grateful guests sent forth.
Silence like grave-yard air, again,
Pervades the festive space:
All list for another minstrel strain;
And the youth, with merrier face,
But tender notes, thus half-divulged
The passion which his heart indulged:—

O choose thou the maid with the gentle blue eye,
That speaketh so softly, and looketh so shy;
Who weepeth for pity,
To hear a love ditty,
And marketh the end with a sigh.
If thou weddest a maid with a wide staring look,
Who babbleth as loud as the rain-swollen brook,
Each day for the morrow
Will nurture more sorrow,—
Each sun paint thy shadow a-crook.
The maid that is gentle will make a kind wife;
The magpie that prateth will stir thee to strife:
'Twere better to tarry,
Unless thou canst marry
To sweeten the bitters of life!
————

What fires the youthful minstrel's lay
Lit in De Thorold's eyes,
It needs not, now, I soothly say:
Sweet Edith had softly stolen away,—
And 'mid his own surprise,
Blent with the boisterous applause
That, instant, to the rafters rose,
The baron his jealous thought forgot.
Quickly, sithence a jocund note
Was fairly struck in every mind,
And jolly ale its power combined
To fill all hearts with deeper glee,—
All wished for gleeful minstrelsy;
And every eye was shrewdly bent
On one whose caustic merriment
At many a blythe Yule-tide had bin
Compelling cause of mirthful grin
To ancient Torksey's rustic folk.
Full soon this sturdy summons broke
From sire and son, and maid and mother:—
"Ho, ho! saint Leonard's fat lay brother!
Why dost thou in the corner peep,
And sipple as if half asleep
Thou wert with this good nappy ale?
Come, rouse thee! for thy sly old tale
Of the Miller of Roche and the hornless devil,
We'll hear, or we leave our Yule-night revel!
Thy folded cloak come cast aside!—
Beneath it thou dost thy rebeck hide—
It is thy old trick—we know it well—
Pledge all! and thy ditty begin to tell!"
"Pledge all, pledge all!" the baron cried;
"Let mirth be free at good Yule-tide!"
Then, forth the lay brother his rebeck drew,
And athwart the triple string
The bow in gamesome mood he threw,—
His joke-song preluding;—
Soon, with sly look, the burly man,
In burly tones his tale began.