I. SORE wounded lies the good knight Bran | |
| On the foughten field of Kerloän. | |
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| On Kerloän field, hard by the shore, | |
| Lieth the grandson of Bran-Vor. | |
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| Maugre our Bretons won the day, | 5 |
| He ’s bound and o’er sea borne away. | |
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| Borne over sea, shut up, alone, | |
| In donjon-tower he made his moan. | |
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| “My kin they shout for joy, but I, | |
| Sore wounded, on my bed must lie. | 10 |
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| “O, where shall I find a post to bear | |
| A letter unto my mother dear?” | |
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| A post has been found, and in this wise ran | |
| The orders of the good knight Bran,— | |
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| “Now busk thee, busk thee in masquing weed, | 15 |
| A beggar’s gown were safe at need. | |
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| “And take this signet-ring o’ me, | |
| This ring of gold, for a token to be. | |
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| “To the land of Leon when thou shalt fare, | |
| This ring to my lady mother bear. | 20 |
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| “And if she come with my ransom-fee, | |
| Hoist a white flag, that I may see. | |
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| “And if she come not, O dule and woe? | |
| Hoist a black flag, that I may know.” | |
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II. When the messenger came to the land of Leon, | 25 |
| The noble dame to supper had gone. | |
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| To supper was set, with her kinsmen all,— | |
| The merry minstrels, they harped in hall. | |
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| “Fair fall thee, noble chatelan, | |
| I bring this ring from thy fair son Bran. | 30 |
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| “His ring of gold, and a letter thereon,— | |
| Behoves you read it, and read anon.” | |
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| “My merry minstrels, your harping give o’er, | |
| With a heavy grief my heart is sore. | |
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| “No time for harping is this, God wot; | 35 |
| My son lies bound, and I knew it not. | |
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| “To-night make me a good ship yare, | |
| That to-morrow I over sea may fare.” | |
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III. The morrow morn, from off his bed, | |
| The good knight Bran to his warder said,— | 40 |
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| “Warder, warder, look out and see | |
| Is there no ship upon the sea?” | |
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| “Now nay, Sir Knight, naught never see I, | |
| But it be the great sea and the sky.” | |
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| The good knight Bran, at mid of day, | 45 |
| Again to the warder he ’gan say,— | |
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| “Warder, warder, look out and see, | |
| Is there no ship upon the sea?” | |
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| “Now nay, Sir Knight, I see naught, I trow, | |
| But the sea-mews flying to and fro.” | 50 |
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| The good knight Bran, at the set of day, | |
| Again to the warder he ’gan say,— | |
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| “Warder, warder, look out and see, | |
| Is there no ship upon the sea?” | |
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| Outspake the warder, full of guile, | 55 |
| And smiled on him a cruel smile,— | |
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| “A ship I see, far, far away, | |
| And the winds about it lash the spray.” | |
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| “What flag? what flag blows out to sight?” | |
| Is ’t of the black? is ’t of the white?” | 60 |
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| “Sir Knight, if rightly I discern, | |
| ’T is black,—I swear by the brands that burn.” | |
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| The woful knight, when this he heard, | |
| Thereafter never uttered word. | |
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| He turned his pale face to the wall, | 65 |
| And shivered as they that in fever fall. | |
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IV. The lady, as ever she leaped to land, | |
| Bespoke the townsfolk upon the strand,— | |
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| “What here has happed? what means this thing, | |
| That thus I hear the church-bells ring?” | 70 |
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| An aged man, that the ladye heard, | |
| Made answer straight upon the word,— | |
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| “One we had here in hold, a knight, | |
| Is dead, so late as yesternight.” | |
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| Scarce spoke were the words of that old man, | 75 |
| Distraught to the tower the ladye ran. | |
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| O, fast flowed her tears, as fast she flew, | |
| With her thin white hairs all loose that blew, | |
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| That the townsfolk marvelled much to see | |
| An aged ladye, of high degree, | 80 |
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| A stranger ladye, in wail and woe, | |
| And mourning, through their streets to go, | |
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| That each bespoke other, as by she ran, | |
| “What ladye is this? what kith and clan?” | |
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| To the high tower foot when she won her way, | 85 |
| The porter the weeping dame ’gan pray: | |
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| “Draw bolt, draw bar, and let me in,— | |
| My son, my son! that to him I win!” | |
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| He hath drawn the bar, and the bolt hath sprung: | |
| On her son’s dead body herself she flung. | 90 |
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| And in her arms she clasped him amain, | |
| And from that embrace never rose again. | |
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V. On the battle-field of Kerloän | |
| There grows a tree looks o’er the lan’; | |
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| There grows an oak in the place of stour, 1 | 95 |
| Where the Saxons fled from Ewen-Vor. | |
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| Upon this oak, when the moon shines bright, | |
| The birds they gather from the night. | |
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| Sea-mews, pied black and white are there, | |
| On every forehead a blood-speck clear. | 100 |
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| With them a corbie, ash-gray for eld, | |
| And a young crow 2 aye at her side beheld. | |
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| Wayworn seem the twain, with wings that dreep, | |
| As birds that flight o’er sea must keep. | |
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| So sweetly sing these birds, and clear, | 105 |
| The great sea stills its waves to hear, | |
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| And aye their songs one burden hold, | |
| All save the young crow’s and the corbie’s old. | |
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| And this is ever the crow’s sore cry,— | |
| “Sing, little birds, sing merrily. | 110 |
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| “Sing, birds o’ the land, in merry strain, | |
| You died not far from your own Bretayne.” | |
