Classic Poem

A Christmas Ballade of Good Counsel

'Twas in the rare old feudal time—the day of dim tradition—
When errant knight, in armor dight, rode forth on roving mission;

When troubadour, in gay array, besought the love-lorn maiden,
And warbled airs to banish cares from hearts with sorrow laden.

'Twas in those dear romantic days of joust and martial glory,
A maiden, fair beyond compare, dwelt on a promontory.

Below her swiftly flowed the rhine, its waters brightly gleaming,
Whilst dead men's bones amongst the stones bore witness to her scheming.

For, lo! she was the lurley maid—she whose transcendent singing
Charmed everyone who heard her tone in dulcet rapture ringing!

Charmed everyone who heard, and sent him straightway to perdition—
For once to hear her accents clear meant woe beyond remission.

For once to hear her meant to love, and loving meant undoing:
Lost was that knight whose rapt delight urged him unto her wooing!

One Christmas eve, while high above the Gibbous moon was beaming,
In the pale moonlight there rode a knight with cuirass brightly gleaming.

A noble knight, whose name is known in sonnet, song and story—
Hans aberlard von rothenbard, hersog von allegory.

Returning from the holy wars—a bold and fierce crusader,
Whose falchion true had oft cut through the saracen invader.

He rode along right merrilie, a lightsome love song voicing:
His heart was light, the moon was bright, he went his way rejoicing.

But hark! what is that sound he hears, so sweetly round him ringing?
Rich, high and clear it smote his ear. Forsooth, 'twas lurline singing!

“Aha!” the amorous duke exclaimed. “some maiden waits her lover.
“Dan Cupid's dart hath pierced her heart, whate'er its prudish cover.

“'Odswounds! I'll linger here awhile, and woo the winsome fairy.
“For love's delight, base is the knight who would not halt or tarry!”

While speaking thus he upward looked. Ye Gods! that sight elysian!
The evidence of sight to sense was proof it was no vision.

For, high above him, on the rock that overlooked the water,
Stood fair lurline, the siren queen—kind nature's lovliest daughter.

There stood she in the pale moonlight, while hans, down by the river.
Observes her curves and all his nerves are instantly a-quiver.

“Now by my dreams of love!” he cried, “thou art an earth-born venus!
“Here will I bide, whate'er betide nor naught shall come between us!”

He quick dismounted from his steed, bent on a gentle amour.
(Unhappy fate! in captive state she'll hold him with her Glamour!)

By devious paths he reached her side. (alas, the knight's undoing!)
In frenzied glee he bent his knee, with sweet intent of wooing.

But, lo! she bade him to arise, and coyly then retreating,
She led him far 'neath crag and spar, he minding all her wishes
('Twas evident 'twas her intent to feed him to the fishes.)

But when they reached the cavern deep where ghastly skulls were grinning
Sly hanschen stayed to woo the maid in manner wondrous winning.

“By cock and pye! fair maid,” quoth he, “thou silvery-voiced enslaver,
“Thy upper G quite captured me, sustained without a quaver!

“If my applause seems bold, dear one, pray pardon my effrontry,
“For such sweet tone was never known in this or other country.

“Why stay ye on this barren rock, y'clad so very lightly,
“When you might be a coryphee, and bring the house down nightly?

“And Christmas eve, too! of all things this most lacks rhyme and reason
“To find a maid thus unarrayed against the wintry season.

“Come hence, away, and be attired as best becomes your graces,
“In flounce, and bow, and furbelow, and rare valencienne laces.

“For you're bedight, contrary, quite, to modern prudish notion;
“And, I confess, your present dress would cause a vast commotion.

“Have pity, sweet, if in your breast there beats a heart that's human—
“To fight the turk is easy work compared with wooing woman!

“Therefore I prithee, beauteous one, upon me take compassion
“And come with me to gay paree—the town of fun and fashion.

“You shall have gold, and gowns galore, and diamonds brightly shining,
“If you but will my heart to still, and bid me cease repining;

“If you will my heart to still, to drown the past we'll try, love,
“And that old town we'll do up brown—or know the reason why, love.

“Here at your feet I humbly sue, upon my knee a-kneeling.
“Prestissimo! away we go, if you have heart or feeling!”

He ceased. The lurley bowed and blushed—then whispered sweet as honey,
“I will be true, dear knight, to you” (aside—“while you have money!”)

Down in her heart she scorned his sighs, and spurned his deep devotion.
But when he told her of his gold— Ah! then she showed emotion.

She knew not what it was to love, she felt no thrill of passion;
The one soft part of her hard heart he touched by naming fashion.

When next the worthy pair were seen 'twas in the merry city,
Where fair lurline reigned yet a Queen Sans Mercy and Sans Pity

For yet she won the hearts of men in Dimity and Laces,
As when she sung with Silvery Tongue, and Charmed with other Graces.

As for the foolish Rothenbard: with jewels, wines and suppers
(From which his purse was much the worse), he soon was on his uppers.

Gone are the days of feast and fun, the nights of wine and wassail,
For which he paid, the Silly Jade! with Title, Lands and Castle.

As ebbs the tide of fortune so does she from love recover—
When he'd run through his every sou, she found another lover.

The Lurley Maid lives to this day— and will live on forever;
She lives to-day, and will for aye, nor time her charm can sever.

For, wit you well, as years go by her potency enhances.
Once in her power, beshrew the hour!—Through life on hearts she dances.

Good Sir, mayhap this night you'll meet, at some Occasion Festal,
A damsel fair, who has, you'll swear, the virtue of a vestal.

It may be she! go not too near—her aim she never misses—
Shell steal your soul from your control, and kill you with her kisses.

Shell steal your soul from your control, and do it too, so neatly
That you'll ne'er guess her guilefulness until you're done completely.

Her wanton wiles are clad in smiles that quickly do their mission—
She'll snare your heart with horrid art and doom you to perdition.

Therefore, I prithee, Sir, Eschew the eye that's beaming.
Beware the eye, beware the sigh, beware the modest seeming—

You'd best beware all women fair, or else expect no mercy,
You can not tell, till in her spell, which one will be your circe!