The Bald-head Monk

There lies a cloister behind a wood,-
Its vanes with gold ablaze;
And standing before it are champions twelve,
That cloister sworn to raze.

To plunder and raze those cloister walls
Twelve stalwart champions stood,
And seized and slaughter'd both ox and cow,
That serv'd the monks for food.

The bald-head Monk from his window look'd,
And rattled the beams and wall;
"What! are then our foes no more than these?
"I'll meet them and fight them all."

The Monk he call'd to his serving boy,
"Knave, fetch me my massive club;
"I'll up and off to the forest go,
"And yonder champions drub."

Fifteen were the men who brought it in,
As many they were, or more,
The Monk his club with his fingers two
As deft and as gaily bore.

The Monk he shouldered his massive club,
And off to the greenwood hied;
And waiting to seize him and bind his limbs
Twelve champions there espied.

They drew a ring on the heathy ground,
Sang each to the other a lay,
And doleful enough, to say the truth,
The measure they sung that day.

He first slew four, and he then slew five,
And all at a blow the rest,
And started away, the bald-head Monk,
Of worthier foes in quest.

It listed him then, the bald-head Monk,
To go on a wider tour,
And off to the wood he paced his way
So leisurely o'er the moor.

Away to the wood he boldly strode
O'er meadow and mountain fell,
And met there the lothly and vicious Trold,
The one call'd Sivard Giell.

"Now tell me, art thou the selfsame Monk,
"Who wrought on our champions woe?
"And wilt thou rather like craven fly?
"Or stand to me blow for blow?"

"In truth I am still that selfsame Monk,
"Who wrought on the champions woe,
"Nor will I rather like craven fly,
"But stand to thee blow for blow."

The Trold began, and he struck the Monk
So flat on his shaven crown,
That blood from his brawny shoulders burst,
And dripp'd from his garments down.

But now the Monk in his turn laid on,
And stretch'd the Trold at his length;
"O curses on thee, thou bald-head Monk!
"Too well do I feel thy strength.

"But stay thy hand, thou bald-head Monk,
"And strike me, I pray, no more;
"I'll heap thee with gold and silver too
"And coin that I have in store.

As tall as on foot the stalwart Monk,
Was down on his knees the Trold,
And, creeping, he show'd him a secret cell
With fifteen doors of gold.

He led him the road to a secret cell
With fifteen golden doors,
And all that the Monk could carry away,
He took of the treasured stores.

The gold to his cloister and silver too
Seven loads he carried away,
And bade them to send another one out,
Who better his club could play.

When daylight waned, and the cheerfull sun
To slumber had sunk below,
The Monk had still to his cloister home
Fifteen long miles to go.

The sun from out of the glowing west
Beneath the earth had sunk,
And yet the dish that the first was serv'd,
The Abbot's, — that took the Monk.

Because for the soup he had to wait,
Fifteen monks' heads he broke,
Because the fish was still in the pot,
Fifteen of them hung to smoke.

"Alas!" said aloud the serving boy,
While fetching the grits for soup,
"Whenever the Monk to cloister comes,
To this we shall have to stoop."

He struck the Abbot across the eye,
And knock'd it out of his head,
Because he was sitting beyond the time,
That folk should be gone to bed.

Up started the Abbot, and left the board,
No longer be dared to stay;
And great indeed was the grief and pain,
He bad to endure that day.

The morrow had dawn'd, and cloister bells
So merry began to ring,
But matins or lesson the bald-head Monk
Would neither read nor sing.

Among the monks and the nuns he went
All sitting in cloister quire,
Nor dared they one of them read or sing
For fear of that bald-head's ire.

At last the Abbot, good holy man,
Was forced to resign his stall,
And then was seated the bald-head Monk
As Abbot above them all.

That cloister for thirty years or more
He govern'd with pomp and pride;
Nor e'er has the like of the bald-head Monk
Been Abbot there, since he died.