“A ballad, a ballad,” said the hermit, “against all the ocs and ouis of France . Downright English am I, Sir Knight, and downright English was my patron St. Dunstan, and scorned oc and oui , as he would have scorned the parings of the devil’s hoof—downright English alone shall be sung in this cell.”
“I will assay, then,” said the knight, “a ballad composed by a Saxon glee-man, whom I knew in Holy Land.”
It speedily appeared, that if the knight was not a complete master of the minstrel art, his taste for it had at least been cultivated under the best instructors. Art had taught him to soften the faults of a voice which had little compass, and was naturally rough rather than mellow, and, in short, had done all that culture can do in supplying natural deficiencies. His performance, therefore, might have been termed very respectable by abler judges than the hermit, especially as the knight threw into the notes now a degree of spirit, and now of plaintive enthusiasm, which gave force and energy to the verses which he sung.
High deeds achieved of knightly fame, From Palestine the champion came; The cross upon his shoulders borne, Battle and blast had dimm’d and torn. Each dint upon his batter’d shield Was token of a foughten field; And thus, beneath his lady’s bower, He sung as fell the twilight hour:— “Joy to the fair!—thy knight behold, Return’d from yonder land of gold; No wealth he brings, nor wealth can need, Save his good arms and battle-steed His spurs, to dash against a foe, His lance and sword to lay him low; Such all the trophies of his toil, Such—and the hope of Tekla’s smile! “Joy to the fair! whose constant knight Her favour fired to feats of might; Unnoted shall she not remain Where meet