Classic Poem

Far in the country of Arden,
There wonned a knight, hight Cassamen,
As bold as Isenbras:
Fell was he and eager bent,
In battle and in tournament,
As was the good sir Topas.

He had, as antique stories tell,
A daughter cleped Dowsabell,
A maiden fair and free;
And for she was her father's heir,
Full well she was yconned the leir
Of mickle courtesy.

The silk well couth she twist and twine,
And make the fine march-pine,
And with the needle work;
And she couth help the priest to say
His matins on a holyday,
And sing a psalm in kirk.

She ware a frock of frolic green,
Might well become a maiden queen,
Which seemly was to see;
A hood to that so neat and fine,
In colour like the columbine,
Ywrought full featously.

Her features all as fresh above,
As is the grass that grows by Dove,
And lithe as lass of Kent;
Her skin as soft as Lemster wool,
As white as snow on Peakish hull,
Or swan that swims in Trent.

This maiden, in a morn betime,
Went forth when May was in the prime,
To get sweet setywall,
The honeysuckle, the charlock,
The lily, and the lady-smock,
To deck her summer hall.

Thus as she wandered here and there,
And picked of the bloomy brere,
She chanced to espy
A shepherd sitting on a bank;
Like Chanticleer he crowed crank,
And piped full merrily.

He learned his sheep, as he him list,
When he would whistle in his fist,
To feed about him round;
Whilst he full many a carol sang,
Until the fields and meadows rang,
And that the woods did sound.

In favour this same shepherd swain
Was like the bedlam Tamberlaine,
Which held proud kings in awe:
But meek as any lamb mought be,
And innocent of ill as he
Whom his lewd brother slaw.

This shepherd ware a sheep-gray cloak,
Which was of the finest lock,
That could be cut with shear.
His mittens were of bauzon's skin,
His cockers were of cordiwin,
His hood of miniver.

His awl and lingel in a thong,
His tar-box on his broad belt hung,
His breech of Cointree blue;
Full crisp and curled were his locks,
His brows as white as Albion rocks,
So like a lover true.

And piping still he spent the day,
So merry as the popinjay,
Which liked Dowsabell;
That would she aught, or would she nought,
This lad would never from her thought;
She in love-longing fell.

At length she tucked up her frock,
White as a lily was her smock,
She drew the shepherd nigh:
But then the shepherd piped a-good,
That all his sheep forsook their food,
To hear his melody.

"Thy sheep,' quoth she, "cannot be lean,
That have a jolly shepherd's swain,
The which can pipe so well':
"Yea, but,' saith he, "their shepherd may,
If piping thus he pine away,
In love of Dowsabell.'

"Of love, fond boy, take thou no keep,'
Quoth she, "look well unto thy sheep,
Lest they should hap to stray.'
Quoth he, "So had I done full well,
Had I not seen fair Dowsabell
Come forth to gather May.'

With that she 'gan to vail her head,
Her cheeks were like the roses red,
But not a word she said;
With that the shepherd 'gan to frown,
He threw his pretty pipes adown,
And on the ground him laid.

Saith she, "I may not stay till night,
And leave my summer hall undight,
And all for love of thee.'
"My cote,' saith he, "nor yet my fold,
Shall neither sheep nor shepherd hold,
Except thou favour me.'

Saith she, "Yet liever I were dead,
Than I should lose my maidenhead,
And all for love of men.'
Saith he, "Yet are you too unkind,
If in your heart you cannot find
To love us now and then.

And I to thee will be as kind,
As Colin was to Rosalind,
Of courtesy the flower.'
"Then will I be as true,' quoth she,
"As ever maiden yet might be
Unto her paramour.'

With that she bent her snow-white knee,
Down by the shepherd kneeled she,
And him she sweetly kissed.
With that the shepherd whooped for joy:
Quoth he, "There 's never shepherd's boy
That ever was so blest.'