  The King has called for priest and cup, The King has taken spur and blade To dub True Thomas a belted knight, And all for the sake o' the songs he made. They have sought him high, they have sought him low, They have sought him over down and lea; They have found him by the milk-white thorn That guards the gates o' Faerie. 'Twas bent beneath and blue above, Their eyes were held that they might not see The kine that grazed between the knowes, Oh, they were the Queens o' Faerie! "Now cease your song," the King he said, "Oh, cease your song and get you dight To vow your vow and watch your arms, For I will dub you a belted knight. "For I will give you a horse o' pride, Wi' keep and tail and seizin and law, And land to hold at your desire." True Thomas smiled above his harp, And turned his face to the naked sky, Where, blown before the wastrel wind, The thistle-down she floated by. "I ha' vowed my vow in another place, And bitter oath it was on me, I ha' watched my arms the lee-long night, Where five-score fighting-men would flee. "My lance is tipped o' the hammered flame, My shield is beat o' the moonlight cold; And I won my spurs in the Middle World, A thousand fathoms beneath the mould. "And what should I make wi' a horse o' pride, And what should I make wi' a sword so brown, But spill the rings o' the Gentle Folk And flyte my kin in the Fairy Town? "And what should I make wi' blazon and belt, And what should I do wi' page and squire That am a king in my own countrie? "For I send east and I send west, And I send far as my will may flee, By dawn and dusk and the drinking rain, And syne my Sendings return to me. "They come wi' news of the groanin' earth, They come wi' news o' the roarin' sea, Wi' word of Spirit and Ghost and Flesh, And man that's mazed among the three." The King he bit his nether lip, And smote his hand upon his knee: "By the faith o' my soul, True Thomas," he said, "Ye waste no wit in courtesie! "As I desire, unto my pride, Can I make Earls by three and three, To run before and ride behind And serve the sons o' my body." "And what care I for your row-foot earls, Before they win to the Pride o' Name, I trow they all ask leave o' me. "For I make Honour wi' muckle mouth, As I make Shame wi' mincin' feet, To sing wi' the priests at the market-cross, Or run wi' the dogs in the naked street. "And some they give me the good red gold, And some they give me the white money, And some they give me a clout o' meal, For they be people o' low degree. "And the song I sing for the counted gold The same I sing for the white money, But best I sing for the clout o' meal That simple people given me." The King cast down a silver groat, A silver groat o' Scots money, "If I come with a poor man's dole," he said, "True Thomas, will ye harp to me?" "Whenas I harp to the children small, And who are you," True Thomas said, "That you should ride while they must stand? "Light down, light down from your horse o' pride, I trow ye talk too loud and hie, And I will make you a triple word, And syne, if ye dare, ye shall 'noble me." He has lighted down from his horse o' pride, And set his back against the stone. "Now guard you well," True Thomas said, "Ere I rax your heart from your breast-bone!" True Thomas played upon his harp, The fairy harp that couldna' lee, And the first least word the proud King heard, It harpit the salt tear out o' his ee. "Oh, I see the love that I lost long syne, I touch the hope that I may not see, And all that I did o' hidden shame, Like little snakes they hiss at me. "The sun is lost at noon—at noon! True Thomas, hide me under your cloak, God wot, I'm little fit to dee!" 'Twas bent beneath and blue above— 'Twas open field and running flood— Where, hot on heath and dyke and wall, The high sun warmed the adder's brood. "Lie down, lie down," True Thomas said. "The God shall judge when all is done; But I will bring you a better word And lift the cloud that I laid on." True Thomas played upon his harp, That birled and brattled to his hand, And the next least word True Thomas made, It garred the King take horse and brand. "Oh, I hear the tread o' the fighting-men, I see the sun on splent and spear! I mark the arrow outen the fern! That flies so low and sings so clear! |
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