Sir Peter and Christine

Christine and Sir Peter sat at board,
Our love we'll now maintain for ever
And joked with many a pleasant word,
My dearest Thee forsake I never,

"Now hark, Sir Peter, what I say,
"You'll ask me on your wedding day?'

"Where I must go to fetch my bride,
"Is much too far for you to ride."

"And tho' your wedding be at Rome,
"Ask me. Sir Peter, I shall come."

"But if, Christine, you will be there,
"Your glittering gold you must not wear."

"To wear it there I need not shun,
"'Twas gold by no dishonour won."

While he prepared his marriage feast,
Christine got shod her trusty beast;

And, mounted on that good grey horse.
Straight to Sir Peter's bent her course.

Christine within the courtyard rode.
Where richly dress'd Sir Peter stood.

"Hark ye. Sir Peter, fair and fine,
"And may I pour you out the wine?"

"Though bride-gift there be none for you,
"A leman's seat is still your due."

Christine in sorrow dropp'd a tear;
"Contempt is hard indeed to bear."

As went her knight to banquet hall,
She followed him in costly pall.

With glittering gold her dress was dight,
With gold her every finger bright.

So soon as into the room she came,
Rose up to greet her maid and dame.

She took the can of silver fine,
And pour'd the knight a cup of wine.

The bride would know what maid so fair
Was she the silver wine-can bare.

"That," said her maid, "dear lady mine,
"That is Sir Peter's concubine."

"If one so fair he had at home,
"Why did he to my father's come?

"While she still in his bosom lay,
"Why come his court to me to pay?

"More gold she bears upon her hand,
"Than worth is all my father's land."

As came the night and hour for bed.
The bride.would to her room be led.

All in the van before the fair
Christine the blazing flambeau bare.

And soon in bed was laid the bride,
And he, Sir Peter, at her side.

Christine the coverlet o'er them spread,
"There lies the youth I thought to wed."

But ere she latch'd their chamber door,
"Good night!" she wish'd them o'er and o'er.

She closed the bower, she turn'd the key;
"And so God's will be done!" said she;

Then went, with sorrow on her brow,
And hung her on an apple bough.

In rush'd a page, the bridegroom told,
"Christine is hanging dead and cold."

Sir Peter rose — grief in his look —
A sword beneath his mantle took;

Against a stone made fast its hilt.
And his heart's blood for sorrow spilt.

But little could the chilly steel
That house's pain and anguish heal;

For to the bride the tidings spread,
"Sir Peter's in the orchard dead."

'Twas hardly told, ere sank and died
For sorrow too the tender bride.

So on the morn at dawn of day
In one sad house three corpses lay;

The bride, that late so gay had been,
Sir Peter, and the fair Christine.