Fair Mettelille

Sirs Peter and Olave at table sat,
Beneath a linden tree
And joked in a long and pleasant chat.
My sweetheart waits for me.

"My friend Sir Olave, you've long delay'd,
"Now choose you and marry some pretty maid."

"Nay marry! What need I for wife to care,
"While this my good little horn I wear?

"I've only to sound my gilded horn
"To fool the soberest girl that's born.

"There's none in the town or country round,
"But jumps as she hears it's merry sound."

"I know a maiden, lives at the mill,
"You never will gain, try what you will.

"I'll bet you the finest horse I rifle,
"You win not Mett, my own fair bride."

"And I'll bet mine, my favourite white,
"She comes to my chamber this very night.

"Your pretty young bride — I'll stake my neck,
"I'll teach her to trip at Sir Olave's beck."

So soon as the dew was on the ground,
Began Sir Olave his strains to sound.

He tuned his harp, he touched the string,
Aid over the fields she heard it ring.

And then on his horn he blew so shrill,
That list to it must fair Mettelille.

She rose — and she knew not what to do —
"And must I then go? — at nightfall too?"

She stood in doubt — she still delay M —
"But thither I dare not take my maid."

At last with only her little hound
She started to thread the forest ground.

All closely wrapt in her mantle blue,
She near to Sir Olave's dwelling drew.

She gently tapped at his door, did she —
"Sir Olave, oh let me in — His me."

"Who's there? I've given my bail for none;
"I'll open to no one by night: — Begone."

"O rise, and let me not beg in vain;
"Nor banter and jest to give me pain."

"As bad as it is to bear the slight,
"You'll not come into my room tonight.

"Right welcome you were to share my bed,
"But that Sir Peter you're sworn to wed.

"And tho' to you I may be so dear,
"Sir Peter is living and much too near."

"O rise, Sir Olave, and let me in,
"The dew will ruin my costly skin."

"Well, if your ermines are wet with dew,
"Turn outside inside, and so adieu!"

"But if to my prayer you still say no,
"Let one of your pages with me go."

"The evening so clear, and the moon so bright,
"You'll find the way to your home aright.

"While over the field her beams are shed;
"Go home to your chamber, and go to bed."

Fair Mettelille went, and her little hound,
Alone they must thread the forest ground.,

But when they came to the garden gate,
There waiting his bride Sir Peter sate.

"And welcome, fair Mett, but how so gay!
"Where stayed then hast thou so late today?" '

"My dear, I had only stolen out
"To gather some flowers and sundry krout:

"And such have I cull'd both red and white,
"As just at their prime were found tonight.

"I stopp'd by the way and slay'd so long
"To list to the nightingale's tuneful song."

"'Twas not to list to a bird, that sang,
"But how that horn of Sir Olave's rang.

"Such furtive visits, and such like game
"Are certain to bring us both to shame.

Trom night-walks and visits like these refrain,
"I trust that it happens not again.

"And hark ye, my sweetheart Mettelille,
"Go back to your bed, and there lie still:

"Go back to your chamber, and go to sleep,
"If me you would wish my vows to keep.

"I've lost a horse, that was all my pride,
"By thy being such a faithless bride."

She went, but whither, — that no one knew,
Or where the night-wind her ashes blew:

For soon was glowing her room with flame;
So bitter she felt her grief and shame.

Sir Peter he mourn'd her long and sore;
Nor dared Sir Olave to meet him more.

So prove not your brides, — my counsel take —
Nor yet on their truth your honour stake.