BUSH BALLADS AND RHYMES 



In that truce, the longest and last of all, 

 In the summer nights of that festival — 

 Soft vesture of samite and silken pall — 



The beginning came of the ending. 



And one trod softly with sandall'd feet — 

 Ah ! why are the stolen waters sweet ? — 



And one crept stealthily after ; 

 I would I had taken him there and wrung 

 His knavish neck when the dark door swung, 

 Or torn by the roots his treacherous tongue, 



And stifled his hateful laughter. 



So the smouldering scandal blazed — but he, 

 My king, to the last put trust in me — 



Aye, well, was his trust requited ? 

 Now, priests may patter, and bells may toll. 

 He will need no masses to aid his soul ; 

 When the angels open the judgment scroll, 



His wrong will be tenfold righted. 



Then dawn'd the day when the mail was 



donn'd. 

 And the steed for the strife caparison'd, 



But not gainst the Norse invader. 



246 



