Classic Poem

A beggar sat by the King's highway,
O, but the road was long!
His hair was black and his beard was grey.
Hark to the linnet's song!
He sat him down by the churchyard gate,
He beat his breast and bemoaned his fate.
There passed the King in his royal state.
Gay ride the merry throng.
There rode the King with his golden crown,
A hawk in the far blue sky.
His haughty Queen in her silken gown.
O, bleats a lamb close by?
Then came full slow on her palfrey white
The Princess, pale as the March moonlight,
And woeful it was to watch her plight.
Hark to the lost lamb's cry!
Then passed the Prince of a far-off land,
What can you buy for gold?
Who came for his claim on the maid's small hand,
A lamb that has lost its fold.
His eyes were chill as the snow-set thorn,
And he rode all grim on his marriage morn,
He scowled at the maid who his suit did scorn.
O, but the wind blows cold!

By went the page in his coat of brown,
Gay was the song he sung.
He knocked the beggar's old oak staff down;
O, but the world was young!
His laugh was rude as he danced away,
He mocked and jeered in his foolish play,
But never a word did the old man say.
Hark, have the church bells rung?
Next came, all chattering, knight and dame,
See how the rooks perch low!
'To marry a maiden so were shame,'
Twelve dark birds all a-row.
They blamed the Prince for his cruelty,
To wed with a maid all sad as she,
Whose heart he knew his could never be.
O, for a good cross-bow!
Now when they came to the great church-door,
Sing hey for the wedding-ring!
The maid she fell to a passion sore;
Hark how the choir-boys sing!
'This deed,' she said, 'I do scorn and hate,
And would it save me from my sad fate,
I'd wed the beggar beside the gate.'
Ah, love is a grievous thing!
Now when this wish the proud Prince did hear,
The priest to the altar goes,
And on her cheek saw the bitter tear,
Pale is the frost-kissed rose,
He made a low and a scornful bow,
'Of love I too have had all enow,
This rival suit I shall glad allow.'
O, what a grey wind blows!
Then spake the King like the pale-cold dead,
An ill day is full long,
'So you with the beggar-man would wed?'
Still is the linnet's song.

He drew her up to the old man's side,
He said, 'Arise, and behold your bride.
She, for your sake, has a Prince denied.'
Loud are the laughing throng.
'Then,' said the King, 'come and claim your bride,'
'My false love bid me wait,'
And she shall sing on the bleak hillside,
'Ah, doleful is my fate!'
He chid his Queen when she dared to speak;
Who kissed the maid on her death-cold cheek,
And held her close lest her heart should break.
'My love will come too late.'
The King strode on with a fearsome frown,
O, for the book and bell!
His weeping Queen in her silken gown.
Long is the tale to tell.
The Princess wan as the March moonlight,
Who cried alone, all a doleful sight,
Of slighted hope and of broken plight.
A slow love is not well.
And the gay young page all full of glee,
Sweet was his tuneful cry.
For in this coil not a tear found he.
Alack that youth must die!
Each knight with his lady curious came,
To speak of the King with a muttered blame,
'To wed these two were a woeful shame.'
See how the black rooks fly!
Then the priest did bless the marriage-ring,
'Long shall I live to rue,'
And the wedding-bells all high did swing.
'Go, for I love not you!'

But the bride she bowed her golden head,
And she sighed, 'O would that I were dead,
Since my false love I may never wed!'
Ah, that her love were true!
The tears flowed quick from her drooping eyes,
O, but her cheeks were pale!
And she gave her gentle breast to sighs.
Low did she weep and wail.
'When my haughty sire your suit denied
You swore to make me still your bride,
All brave you stood and his rage defied.'
Alack that trust should fail!
But the little page he mocked and jeered,
Gay was the song he sung,
And he plucked the old man by the beard,
O, but his heart was young!
And he pulled right hard in youthful play
Till he plucked the beggar's beard away,
And there stood Shaun of Dun Clonleigh.
Full loud his laughter rung.
And there stood Shaun, all so good to see,
Now let the joy-bells chime.
Of Irish manhood full six-foot-three.
Love brings the summer clime.
And when this pother the King did know,
He out from the church did furious go,
And he bade his smiling Queen also.
Spring is the mating time.
And by them quick went the Prince so proud.
The hawk is flying by.
His face was like the grey thunder-cloud.
Hark to the lost lamb's cry!
He flung himself on his chafing steed,
And rode away at his utmost speed,
And no good wish did he make, or deed.
The shepherd's arm is nigh.

Then slow did follow the fair young bride,
Strew roses for her feet!
Her own true lover was by her side,
And O, but youth is sweet!
And the little page with laughter gay,
From whose smooth chin with a great display
There hung the beggar-man's beard of grey.
Woe that time is fleet!
But loitering last came knight and dame,
So ends this holiday.
To whisper oft their grief and shame,
Much did they find to say,
How she bade a Prince come forth to woo,
And then his fond heart broke in two;
This was no thing for a maid to do,
All on the King's highway!