  Long, long ago when castles grim did frown, When massy wall and gate did 'fend each town; When mighty lords in armour bright were seen, And stealthy outlaws lurked amid the green And oft were hanged for poaching of the deer, Or, gasping, died upon a hunting spear; When barons bold did on their rights insist And hanged or burned all rogues who dared resist; When humble folk on life had no freehold And were in open market bought and sold; When grisly witches (lean and bony hags) Cast spells most dire yet, meantime, starved in rags; When kings did lightly a-crusading fare And left their kingdoms to the devil's care— At such a time there lived a noble knight Who sweet could sing and doughtily could fight, Whose lance thrust strong, whose long sword bit full deep With darting point or mighty two-edged sweep. A duke was he, rich, powerful—and yet Fate had on him a heavy burden set, For, while a youth, as he did hunt the boar, The savage beast his goodly steed did gore, And as the young duke thus defenceless lay, With cruel tusk had reft his looks away, Had marred his comely features and so mauled him That, 'hind his back, “The ugly Duke” folk called him— My daughter GILLIAN interposeth: GILL: An ugly hero? MYSELF: That is so. GILL: An ugly hero, father? O, absurd! Whoever of an “ugly” hero heard? MYSELF: I'll own, indeed, I've come across but few— GILL: But a duke—and ugly! Father, this from you? MYSELF: My duke is ugly, very, for good reason, As shall appear in due and proper season! GILL: I'm sure no one will want to read him then, For “heroes” all should be most handsome men. So make him handsome, please, or he won't do. MYSELF: By heaven, girl—no, plain heroes are too few! GILL: Then ev'ry one will leave him on the shelf! MYSELF: Why, then, I'll read the poor fellow myself. GILL: I won't! MYSELF: Then don't! Though, I might say, since you're set on it, child, My duke was not so ugly when he smiled— GILL: Then make him smile as often as you can. MYSELF: I might do that, 't is none so bad a plan. GILL: And the lady—she must be a lady fair. MYSELF: My dear, she's beautiful beyond compare. GILL: Why, then— MYSELF: My pen! So here and now I do begin The tale of young Duke Jocelyn, For critics, schools, And cramping rules, Heedless and caring not a pin. The title here behold On this fair page enrolled, In letters big and bold, As seemeth fit— To wit:—
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