The Red Petticoat
You were no beauty, Anne Boleyn,
Your skin too dark, not fair,
Your eyes were brown, tho' almost black,
And dark, your dark brown hair;
'Not handsome, ' the Ambassador
From Venice would opine,
But everyone agreed, your slender neck
Was very fine.
Your sister Mary wooed the King,
And took him to her bed,
She'd thought that she could win; he stayed
With Catherine, instead,
For Harry never dignified
The whores he conquered, when
The skirts he couldn't raise were far
More Queenly, then, to him.
Your eyes, they sparkled, led him on,
Your lips they told him 'No! '
'I would not have my liege, my prince
Think badly of me so! '
For seven years you pouted, swore
Undying love could wait,
Until he gained the great divorce,
Re-sought the wedded state.
Oh, Anne Boleyn, the only sin
You sought was to be free,
To choose the man you would adore,
Not bound by some decree,
But Percy was then barred from court
As Wolsey warned him off,
And Wyatt's gentle poetry
Was merely Courtly Love.
To be demure and gentle,
Acquiesce in Henry's plans,
Was not the way of Anne Boleyn,
You used your pressing charms.
You could be stubborn, quarrelsome
As all in court could hear,
Chapuys called you a 'she-devil',
A woman men should fear.
And so it was with Thomas More,
You helped him disappear,
By whispering words of hatred in
King Henry's willing ear,
Your tongue brought Cardinal Wolsey down,
It ended Fisher's life,
You built your store of Karma as
Our Good King Henry's wife.
You had a bright red petticoat
Worn underneath your smock,
You'd laugh and flirt outrageously,
Excessively, de trop,
But you could not provide the heir
To bolster Henry's worth,
The first born was a pretty girl,
The next two died at birth.
Mark Smeaton played a pretty song
And to your chamber came,
With young Sir Henry Norris
And your brother, George Boleyn,
Sir Francis Weston, Brereton,
Would come to dance and sue
Their Courtly Love, but soon it turned
More sinister for you.
Jane Seymour fixed her eye on him,
Your oh, so loving lord,
And he began to wonder why
He'd blessed you with his word,
He asked of Thomas Cromwell
That he snoop, and spy, and bring
Such evidence that he might break
Your marriage bond to him.
Treason! For adultery,
And incest with Boleyn!
You wept and claimed your innocence,
But none were listening.
The men were taken to the tower,
And then to Tower Hill,
The axeman swung his greedy blade
And watched the five heads spill.
But not the axe for you, my Queen,
Your long and slender neck
Was much too fine to butcher,
To receive such scant respect.
They brought a swordsman from Calais,
A Frenchman for the Queen,
A master of his craft, he'd make
One slice, both swift and clean.
And so you tied your dark brown hair
Up high, to bare your neck,
You donned your bright red petticoat
No blood would show on that;
You gave your speech at Tower Green
Then knelt in whispered prayer,
The swordsman stood well back, his sword
Was hidden in the straw.
With one swift, powerful stroke, the blade
Made sure that you were dead,
Your lips still moved in muttered prayer,
Your eyes rolled in your head.
King Henry heard the news while he
Rode gaily, hunting deer,
And thought once of your petticoat...
Then rode to Jane Seymour.
27 May 2008
poem by David Lewis Paget
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A Man for All Seasons
The sunlight is too bright for me-
I was in prison for so long.
My trial, a show staged by the Court,
condemned before I spoke a word.
I thought, by silence, to preserve
my family from Penury.
I counted not on Richard Rich-
compensed to commit perjury.
“Lieutenant, help me up these stairs
I’ll find my own way down, I think.”
Though weak, I stand and face the crowd
Some bravely bless me as I speak.
“I die loyal servant to my king
But I give primacy to God.”
(I would not take the proffered oath
That would make Henry more than Lord)
“I give my life for Holy Church
like Fisher did before me.”
Catherine is my rightful Queen
Anne Boleyn, King’s plaything..
“Axe man; spare my beard I pray-
my “Treason’s” not its doing.”
By your blade is More made less?
No, More serves God in heaven.
To those who caused his Martyrdom
The blade was less forgiving.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Albert and the 'Eadsman
On young Albert Ramsbottom's birthday
His parents asked what he'd like most;
He said to see t' Tower of London
And gaze upon Anne Boleyn's ghost.
They thowt this request were unusual
And at first to refuse were inclined,
'Til Pa said a trip t' metrollopse
Might broaden the little lad's mind.
They took charrybank up to London
And got there at quarter to fower,
Then seeing as pubs wasn't open
They went straight away to the tower.
They didn't think much to the buildin'
'T weren't what they'd been led to suppose,
And the 'Bad Word' Tower didn't impress them,
They said Blackpool had got one of those.
At last Albert found a Beefeater
And filled the old chap with alarm.
By asking for Ghost of Anne Boleyn
As carried her 'ead 'neath her arm.
Said Beefeater 'You ought to come Fridays
If it's ghost of Anne Boleyn you seek,
Her union now limits her output
And she only gets one walk a week.
'But,' he said, 'if it's ghosts that you're after,
There's Lady Jane Grey's to be seen,
She runs around chased by the 'Eadsman
At midnight on th' old Tower Green.'
They waited on t' green till near midnight,
Then thinking they'd time for a sup,
They took out what food they'd brought with them
And waited for t' ghost to turn up.
On the first stroke of twelve, up jumped Albert,
His mouth full of cold, dripping toast,
With his stick with the 'orses 'ead 'andle
He pointed, and said 'Here's the ghost!'
They felt their skins going all goosey
As Lady Jane's Spectre drew near
And Albert fair swallered his tonsils
When the 'Eadsman an' all did appear.
The 'Eadsman chased Jane round the grass patch
They saw his axe flash in the moon
And seeing as poor lass were 'eadless
They wondered what what next he would prune.
He suddenly caught sight of Albert
As midnight was on its last chime
As he lifted his axe, father murmered
'We'll get the insurance this time.'
At that, Mother rose, taking umbridge;
She said, 'Put that cleaver away.
You're not cutting our Albert's 'ead off,
Yon collar were clean on today.
The brave little lad stood undaunted
'Til the ghost were within half a pace.
Then taking the toast he were eating,
Slapped it, dripping side down, in his face.
'T were a proper set-back for the 'Eadsman
He let out one 'owl of despair,
Then taking his ladyfriend with him
He disappeared - just like that, there.
When Pa saw the way as they vanished
He trembled with fear and looked blue,
'Til Ma went and patted his shoulder
An' said, 'Sallright lad, we saw it too.'
Some say 'twere the drippin' as done it,
From a roast leg of mutton it came,
And as th' 'Eadsman had been a Beefeater
They reckon he vanished from shame.
And around Tower Green, from that moment,
They've ne're seen a sign of the ghost,
But when t' Beefeaters go on night duty,
They take slices of cold drippin' toast.
poem by Marriott Edgar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I heard say the executioner was very good, and I have a little neck.
quote by Anne Boleyn (19 May 1536)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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The Queen
The French Queen
Offered cake to the hungry
Marie Antoinette
The English Queen
Lost her head for her King
Anne Boleyn
The Russian Queen with no children
Loved cats a lot
Catherine the Great
The Queen of Sidewalks
Fell asleep at work
City Whore
The Queen of Computers
Fell asleep at the keyboard
Her identity is protected
poem by Jankovic Zoran
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Henry and Woman Servicing
You don't want to go
With that kind of woman,
Henry's mother said.
What kind of woman
is that? Henry asked.
The kind that offer
themselves to men
who are not their
husbands, his mother
replied, sitting back
in the soft chair by
the fireplace, joining
her fingers, forming
what she used to call
her church. Henry watched
her church form of finger
forming, his eyes sliding
over his mother's dyed
hair, the grey streaks,
the nose, the thin red
painted lips. But isn't
that kind of women
providing a service?
Henry asked, walking
to the window, watching
his father mowing the
lawn, sweat on the brow,
the eyes dead looking.
Service? His mother said,
her tone icy, Service?
She repeated, that's not
service, Henry that's sin.
S.I.N. Henry raised his
eyebrows, there was in
the pocket of his pants,
a pack of fives, unused
as yet. Oh, Henry said,
Duncan Smold had this
woman in the back of
his car, he called it hard
smooching or some such
word. Henry's mother
eyed him closely, her eyes
narrowing. Then he sinned,
Henry, he sinned, she said,
pushing a hand through
her hair, her features going
red. Oh, right, Henry said,
I'll tell Duncan next time
he's in his car with some
woman in the back, that
he's sinning, Henry turned
away, he didn't want his
mother to see him grinning.
poem by Terry Collett
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Snow-White (Part 1)
Hers were the beautiful blue eyes and the black long hair,
She watched her blood dropp freezing to burn in the air.
Her pale lips were keeping the mark of her love's glow,
She wanted a child having the skin as white as the snow,
The hair as black as ebony and the lips as red as the blood.
That red on that white looked as beautiful as a flower bud.
She was sewing and watching the ebony of her window's frame.
An angel became visible in the air to tell her the child's name.
''Light up this love, my Lord, and give me this child of light
Unbearable is this pain of mine, light up my soul and my sight.''
Coming up the stairs, the king saw this and he told his queen,
'This white angel is the most beautiful creature I've ever seen! ''
The queen's heart used to be like a little book being unread,
But in front of her husband, it has become an open thread.
He tenderly kissed her, ''Your broken heart is no longer dead,
Because for Snow White on the snow your secret has bled.''
When she gave birth to her child, the sun rose to be so bright
And everything in the castle could be seen in the holy light,
But when the king came to see them, he heard only the sighs.
When he saw his dead queen, sad tears flooded his black eyes.
While he was living with his child being a lonely sad father,
The king thought to bring to little Snow White a new mother.
''Light up this life, my Lord, because I have only fears and sighs,
Change my fate, because I need a new morn in my sad eyes! ''
He married again, but the queen's heart was mercilessly beating.
She was like a dangerous snake and poisoned was her greeting.
Her sarcastic lips were always keeping the mark of her hatred,
Her powers were hidden, because for her the devil was sacred.
She kept her frozen air, although the snow was melting in Spring,
Her words could remain suspended in the air to freeze everything.
‘'Mirror, dear Mirror on the wall, who in this land is fairest of all?
‘'You, my queen, are fairest of all'', echoed the mirror in the hall.
The Snow White grew up becoming more beautiful than the queen,
The king told her, 'You're the most beautiful child I have ever seen! ''
When the mirror told the queen, ‘'You, my queen, are fair; it is true.
She added, ''Little Snow-White is still a thousand times fairer than you.''
The king started seriously to think of the passion they had known
‘Cause the queen's self-satisfaction and insensibility have grown.
He realized that it's a wretchedness to continue sharing their bed.
He wanted to open a dialog with her, but the words left all unsaid.
poem by Marieta Maglas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Queen Hilda of Virland
PART I
Queen Hilda rode along the lines,
And she was young and fair;
And forward on her shoulders fell
The heavy braids of hair:
No gold was ever dug from earth
Like that burnished there –
No sky so blue as were her eyes
Had man seen anywhere.
'Twas so her gay court poets sang,
And we believed it true.
But men must fight for golden hair
And die for eyes of blue!
Cheer after cheer, the long half mile
(It has been ever thus),
And evermore her winsome smile
She turned and turned on us.
The Spring-burst over wood and sea,
The day was warm and bright –
Young Clarence stood on my left hand,
Old Withen on the right.
With fifteen thousand men, or more,
With plumes and banners gay,
To sail that day to foreign war,
And our ships swarmed on the bay.
Old Withen muttered in his beard I listened with a sigh –
"Good Faith! for such a chit as that
Strong men must kill and die.
She'll back to her embroideree,
And fools that bow and smirk,
And we must sail across the sea
And go to other work.
"And wherefore? Wherefore," Withen said,
"Is this red quarrel sought?
Because of clacking painted hags
And foreign fops at Court!
Because 'tis said a drunken king,
In lands we've never seen,
Said something foolish in his cups
Of our young silly queen!
"Good faith! in her old great-aunt's time
'Twere different, I vow:
If old Dame Ruth were here, she'd get
Some sharp advising now!"
(At this a grim smile went about
For men could say in sooth
That none who'd seen her face could doubt
The fair fame of Dame Ruth.)
If Clarence heard, he said no word;
His soul was fresh and clean;
The glory in his boyish eyes
Was shining for his Queen!
And as she passed, he gazed as one
An angel might regard.
(Old Withen looked as if he'd like
To take and smack her hard.)
We only smiled at anything
That good old Withen said,
For he, half blind, through smoke and flame
Had borne her grandsire dead;
And he, in Virland's danger time,
Where both her brothers died,
Had ridden to red victory
By her brave father's side.
Queen Hilda rode along the lines
'Mid thundering cheers the while,
And each man sought – and seemed to get –
Her proud and happy smile.
Queen Hilda little dreamed – Ah, me! –
On what dark miry plain,
And what blood-blinded eyes would see
Her girlish smile again!
Queen Hilda rode on through the crowd,
We heard the distant roar;
We heard the clack of gear and plank,
The sailors on the shore.
Queen Hilda sought her "bower" to rest,
(For her day's work was done),
We kissed our wives – or others' wives –
And sailed ere set of sun.
(Some sail because they're married men,
And some because they're free –
To come or not come back agen,
And such of old were we.
Some sail for fame and some for loot
And some for love – or lust –
And some to fish and some to shoot
And some because they must.
(Some sail who know not why they roam
When they are come aboard,
And some for wives and loves at home,
And some for those abroad.
Some sail because the path is plain,
And some because they choose,
And some with nothing left to gain
And nothing left to lose.
(And we have sailed from Virland, we,
For a woman's right or wrong,
And we are One, and One, and Three,
And Fifteen Thousand strong.
For Right or Wrong and Virland's fame –
You dared us and we come
To write in blood a woman's name
And take a letter home.)
PART II
King Death came riding down the lines
And broken lines were they,
With scarce a soldier who could tell
Where friend or foeman lay:
The storm cloud looming over all,
Save where the west was red,
And on the field, of friend and foe,
Ten thousand men lay dead.
Boy Clarence lay in slush and blood
With his face deathly white;
Old Withen lay by his left side
And I knelt at his right.
And Clarence ever whispered,
Though with dying eyes serene:
"I loved her for her girlhood,.
Will someone tell the Queen?"
And this old Withen's message,
When his time shortly came:
"I loved her for her father's sake
But I fought for Virland's fame:
Go, take you this, a message
From me," Old Withen said,
"Who knelt beside her father,
And his when they were dead:
"I who in sport or council,
I who as boy and man,
Would aye speak plainly to them
Were it Court, or battle's van –
(Nay! fear not, she will listen
And my words be understood,
And she will heed my message,
For I know her father's blood.)
"If shame there was – (I judge not
As I'd not be judged above:
The Royal blood of Virland
Was ever hot to love,
Or fight.) – the slander's wiped out,
As witness here the slain:
But, if shame there was, then tell her
Let it not be again."
At home once more in Virland
The glorious Spring-burst shines:
Queen Hilda rides right proudly
Down our victorious lines.
The gaps were filled with striplings,
And Hilda wears a rose:
And what the wrong or right of it
Queen Hilda only knows.
But, be it state or nation
Or castle, town, or shed,
Or be she wife or monarch
Or widowed or unwed –
Now this is for your comfort,
And it has ever been:
That, wrong or right, a man must fight
For his country and his queen.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Loving Henry
Henry, Henry, do you love me?
Do I love you, Mary?
Oh, can you mean to liken me
To the aspen tree.
Whose leaves do shake and vary,
From white to green
And back again,
Shifting and contrary?
Henry, Henry, do you love me,
Do you love me truly?
Oh, Mary, must I say again
My love's a pain,
A torment most unruly?
It tosses me
Like a ship at sea
When the storm rages fully.
Henry, Henry, why do you love me?
Mary, dear, have pity!
I swear, of all the girls there are
Both near and far,
In country or in city,
There's none like you,
So kind, so true,
So wise, so brave, so pretty.
poem by Robert Graves
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Henry the Seventh
Henry the Seventh of England
Wasn't out of the Royal top drawer,
The only connection of which he could boast,
He were King's nephew's brother-in-law.
It were after the Wars of the Roses
That he came to the front, as it were,
When on strength of his having slain Richard the Third
He put himself up as his heir.
T'were a bit of a blow to the Barons
When Henry aspired to the Throne,
And some who'd been nursing imperial hopes
Started pushing out claims of their own.
But they didn't get far with their scheming,
For the moment the matter were pressed
A stroke of the pen took them off to the Tower,
Where a stroke of the axe did the rest.
A feller they called Perkin Warbeck
Was the one who led Henry a dance,
To make sure that nowt awkward should happen to him
He worked from an office in France.
He claimed to be one of the Princes
As were smothered to death in the Tower.
His tale was that only his brother was killed
And that he had escaped the seas ower.
Henry knew the appeal of the Princes
Was a strong one for Perkin to make,
And he reckoned he'd best have a chat with the lad
And find out the least he would take.
In reply to his kind invitation
Perkin said he'd he happy to call,
But he'd bring his own escort of ten thousand men
And a hundred pipers an' all.
This reply put the King in a passion
He swore as he'd stop Perkin's fun,
Then he offered a fortune per annum to him
As could tell him how his could be done.
Then up spoke the bold Lambert Simne
The King's private scullion he were,
He said: "Just one word in thy ear 'ole, O King,
I've a plan as will stop all this 'ere."
Then he took the King up in a corner,
Where no one could hear what they said,
He hadn't got far when King started to laff
And he laffed till he had to he bled.
T 'were a plan to anticipate Perkin,
By getting in first with these tales,
Start another rebellion before he arrived
And take the wind out of his sails.
And so Lambert Simnel's rebellion
Made its fateful debut in the North
Experts disagree who he made out to be,
John the Second or Richard the Fourth.
T 'was surprising how many believed him
They flocked to his flag like one man,
For in them days the folk would do owt for a change,
And their motto was, " San fairy ann."
It were quite a success this rebellion
Till t'were routed by Henry at Stoke,
And Lambert were taken and made to confess
That his parents was working class folk.
The public forgave this deception,
The thing that made them proper mad
Was a twopenny increase on every one's rates
To pay for the fun they had had.
And so when Peter Warbeck came over
Expecting his praise to be sung,
He was greeted, defeated, escheated, unseated,
Maltreated and finally hung.
And the Baron went back to his castle,
The Peasant went back to his herd,
Lambert Simnel went back to his scullion's job
Because Henry went back on his word.
poem by Marriott Edgar
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The Story Of Ill May Day, In The Reign Of King Henry VIII
The Story of Ill May Day, in the reign of king Henry the Eighth, and why it was so called; and how Queen Katherine begged the lives of two thousand London Apprentices. -- To the Tune of Essex Good Night.
Peruse the stories of this land,
And with advisement mark the same,
And you shall justly understand
How Ill May Day first got the name.
For when king Henry th' eighth did reign
And rul'd our famous kingdom here,
His royal queen he had from Spain,
With whom he liv'd full many a year.
Queen Katherine nam'd, as stories tell,
Some time his elder brother's wife;
By which unlawful marriage fell
An endless trouble during life:
Of his fair queen, and of her friends,
Which being by Spain and France perceiv'd,
Their journeys fast for England bends.
And with good leave were suffered
Within our kingdom here to stay,
Which multitude made victuals dear,
And all things else from day to day;
For strangers then did so increase,
And privileg'd in many a place
To dwell, as was in London seen.
Poor tradesmen had small dealing then,
And who but strangers bore the bell?
Which was a grief to English men,
To see them here in London dwell:
Wherefore (God-wot) upon May-eve,
The 'prentices a-maying went,
Who made the magistrates believe,
At all to have no other intent:
But such a May-game it was known,
As like in London never were;
For by the same full many a one
With loss of life did pay full dear:
For thousands came with Bilboe blade,
As with an army they could meet,
And such a bloody slaughter made
Of foreign strangers in the street,
That all the channels ran with blood.
In every street where they remain'd;
Yea, every one in danger stood,
That any of their part maintain'd:
The rich, the poor, the old, the young,
By 'prentices they suffer'd wrong,
When armed thus they gather'd head.
Such multitudes together went,
No warlike troops could them withstand,
Nor could by policy prevent,
What they by force thus took in hand:
Till, at the last, king Henry's power
This multitude encompass'd round,
Where, with the strength of London's tower,
They were by force suppress'd and bound.
And hundreds hang'd by martial law,
On sign-posts at their masters' doors,
By which the rest were kept in awe,
And frighted from such loud uproars;
And others which the fact repented
(Two thousand 'prentices at least)
Were all unto the king presented,
As mayor and magistrates thought best.
With two and two together tied,
Through Temple-bar and Strand they go,
To Westminster, there to be tried,
With ropes about their necks also:
But such a cry in every street,
Till then was never heard or known,
By mothers for their children sweet,
Unhappily thus overthrown;
Whose bitter moans and sad laments,
Possess'd the court with trembling fear;
Whereat the queen herself relents,
Though it concern'd her country dear:
What if (quoth she) by Spanish blood,
Have London's stately streets been wet,
Yet will I seek this country's good,
And pardon for these young men get;
Or else the world will speak of me,
And say queen Katherine was unkind,
And judge me still the cause to be,
These young men did these fortunes find:
And so, disrob'd from rich attires,
With hair hang'd down, she sadly hies,
And of her gracious lord requires
A boon, which hardly he denies.
The lives (quoth she) of all the blooms
Yet budding green, these youths I crave;
O let them not have timeless tombs,
For nature longer limits gave:
In saying so, the pearled tears
Fell trickling from her princely eyes;
Whereat his gentle queen he cheers,
And says, stand up, sweet lady, rise;
The lives of them I freely give,
No means this kindness shall debar,
Thou hast thy boon, and they may live
To serve me in my Bullen war.
No sooner was this pardon given,
But peals of joy rung through the halls,
As though it thundered down from heaven,
The queen's renown amongst them all.
For which (kind queen) with joyful heart,
She gave to them both thanks and praise,
And so from them did gently part,
And lived beloved all her days:
And when king Henry stood in need
Of trusty soldiers at command,
These 'prentices prov'd men indeed,
And fear'd no force of warlike band.
For, at the siege of Tours, in France,
They show'd themselves brave Englishmen;
At Bullen, too, they did advance
Saint George's ancient standard then;
Lest Tourine, Tournay, and those towns
That good king Henry nobly won,
Tell London's 'prentices' renowns,
And of their deeds by them there done.
For Ill May-day, and Ill May-games,
Perform'd in young and tender days,
can be no hindrance to their fames,
But now it is ordain'd by law,
We see on May-day's eve, at night,
To keep unruly youths in awe,
By London's watch, in armour bright
Still prevent the like misdeed,
Which once through headstrong young men came:
And that's the cause that I do read,
May-day doth get so ill a name.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Bibles
You brought your Bibles and printed tracts
To a land that God has no heaven in,
For Tao, Confucious and Buddha, here
Had prior claims to the hearts you'd win.
You think you're holding a secret key
To truths that nobody else has found,
But minds far greater than yours despaired,
And you just cover the same old ground.
And pride lies heavy before a fall,
And vanity masks any truths you see,
The book you cherish is short on facts,
But lives in hopes, through eternity.
While all its chapters are written in blood,
The Jews, the Arabs, the Irish fools,
The swarthy Spanish Inquisitor
Who tore the flesh that he'd save poor souls.
The Reformation of England's Church,
All done for the sake of Anne Boleyn,
While Cranmer, Lambert, and Thomas More
Paid with their lives for Henry's sin.
I have no doubt that my God is there,
And sees the world through a mist of tears,
For what we've made of his mighty plan
Should shame us all for a thousand years.
But if it's a vengeful God you seek
Who waits to punish, and bring us pain,
I know him not, for the God I know
Would love us all, as I love my son.
But such as you can be never told,
You're sure, so sure, and you're born again;
Be sure that you live this life, not scold,
Good works aren't done on your knees, my friend!
poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Death of William Rufus
The Red King's gone a-hunting, in the woods his father made
For the tall red deer to wander through the thicket and the glade,
The King and Walter Tyrrel, Prince Henry and the rest
Are all gone out upon the sport the Red King loves the best.
Last night, when they were feasting in the royal banquet-hall,
De Breteuil told a dream he had, that evil would befall
If the King should go to-morrow to the hunting of the deer,
And while he spoke, the fiery face grew well-nigh pale to hear.
He drank until the fire came back, and all his heart was brave,
Then bade them keep such woman's tales to tell an English slave,
For he would hunt to-morrow, though a thousand dreams foretold
All the sorrow and the mischief De Breteuil's brain could hold.
So the Red King's gone a-hunting, for all that they could do,
And an arrow in the greenwood made De Breteuil's dream come true.
They said `twas Walter Tyrrel, and so it may have been,
But there's many walk the forest when the leaves are thick and
green.
There's many walk the forest, who would gladly see the sport,
When the King goes out a-hunting with the nobles of his court,
And when the nobles scatter, and the King is left alone,
There are thickets where an English slave might string his bow
unknown.
The forest laws are cruel, and the time is hard as steel
To English slaves, trod down and bruised beneath the Norman heel.
Like worms they writhe, but by-and-by the Norman heel may learn
There are worms that carry poison, and that are not slow to turn.
The lords came back, by one and two, from straying far apart,
And they found the Red King lying with an arrow in his heart.
Who should have done the deed, but him by whom it first was seen?
So they said `twas Walter Tyrrel, and so it may have been.
They cried upon Prince Henry, the brother of the King,
And he came up the greenwood, and rode into the ring.
He looked upon his brother's face, and then he turned away,
And galloped off to Winchester, where all the treasure lay.
`God strike me,' cried De Breteuil, `but brothers' blood is thin!
And why should ours be thicker that are neither kith nor kin?'
They spurred their horses in the flank, and swiftly thence they
passed,
But Walter Tyrrel lingered and forsook his liege the last.
They say it was enchantment, that fixed him to the scene,
To look upon his traitor's work, and so it may have been.
But presently he got to horse, and took the seaward way,
And all alone within the glade, in state the Red King lay.
Then a creaking cart came slowly, which a charcoal-burner drove.
He found the dead man lying, a ghastly treasure-trove;
He raised the corpse for charity, and on his wagon laid,
And so the Red King drove in state from out the forest glade.
His hair was like a yellow flame about the bloated face,
The blood had stained his tunic from the fatal arrow-place.
Not good to look upon was he, in life, nor yet when dead.
The driver of the cart drove on, and never turned his head.
When next the nobles throng at night the royal banquet-hall,
Another King will rule the feast, the drinking and the brawl,
While Walter Tyrrel walks alone upon the Norman shore,
And the Red King in the forest will chase the deer no more.
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Ballad Of Saint Vitus
Vitus came tripping over the grass
When all the leaves in the trees were green,
Through the green meadows he did pass
On the day he was full seventeen.
The lark was singing up over his head,
As he went by so lithe and fleet,
And the flowers danced in white and red
At the treading of his nimble feet.
His neck was as brown as the brown earth is
When first the young brown plough-boys delve it,
And his lips were as red as mulberries
And his eyes were like the soft black velvet.
His silk brown hair was touched with bronze,
And his brown cheeks had the tender hue
That like a dress the brown earth dons
When the pink carnations bloom anew.
He was slim as the reeds that sway all along
The banks of the lake, and as straight as a rush,
And as he passed he sang a song,
And his voice was as sweet as the voice of a thrush,
He sang of the Gardens of Paradise,
And the light of God that never grows dim,
And the cherubim with their radiant eyes,
And the rainbow wings of the Seraphim.
And the host as countless as all days,
That worships there, and ceases not,
Singing and praising God always,
With lute and flute and angelot.
And the blessed light of Mary's face
As she sits among these pleasant sounds,
And Christ that is the Prince of Grace,
And the five red flowers that be His wounds.
And so he went till he came to the doors
Of the ivory house of his father the King,
And all through the golden corridors,
As he passed along, he ceased to sing.
But a pagan priest had seen him pass,
And heard his voice as he went along
Through the fields of the bending grass, -
And he heard the words of the holy song.
And he sought the King where he sat on his throne,
And the tears of wrath were in his eyes,
And he said, ' O Sire, be it known
That thy son singeth in this wise ;
'Of the blessed light of Mary's face
As she sits amidst sweet pleasant sounds,
And how that Christ is the Prince of Grace,
And hath five flowers that be His wounds.'
And when the King had heard this thing,
His brow grew black as a winter night,
And he bade the pages seek and bring
Straightway the prince before his sight.
And Vitus came before the King,
And the King cried out, ' I pray thee, son,
Sing now the song that thou didst sing
When thou cam'st through the fields anon.'
And the face of the prince grew white as milk,
And he answered nought, but under the band
That held his doublet of purple silk
Round his slight waist, he thrust his hand.
And the King picked up a spear, and cried,
' What hast thou there ? by the waters of Styx,
Speak or I strike,' and the boy replied,
' Sweet Sire, it is a crucifix.' .
And the King grew black with rage and grief,
And for a full moment he spake no word.
And the spear in his right hand shook like a leaf,
And the vein on his brow was a tight blue cord.
Then he laughed and said, in bitter scorn,
' Take me this Christian fool from my sight,
Lock him in the turret till the morn,
And let him dance alone to-night.
'He shall sit in the dark while the courtly ball
All the gay night sweeps up and down
On the polished floor of the golden hall,
And thus shall he win his martyr's crown.'
Thus spake the King, and the courtiers smiled,
And Vitus hung his head for shame ;
And he thought, ' I am punished like a child,
That would have died for Christ's dear Name.'
And so 'twas done, and on that night,
While silk and sword, with fan and flower,
Danced in the hall in the golden light,
Prince Vitus sat in the lone dark tower.
But the King bethought him, and was moved,
Ere the short summer night was done,
And his heart's blood yearned for the son he loved,
His dainty prince, his only son.
And all alone he climbed the stair,
With the tired feet of a sceptred King,
And came to the door, and lo ! he was 'ware
Of the sound of flute and lute-playing.
And as the King stood there amazed,
The iron door flew open wide,
And the King fell down on his knees as he gazed
At the wondrous thing he saw inside.
For the room was filled with a soft sweet light
Of ambergris and apricot,
And round the walls were angels bright,
With lute and flute and angelot.
On lute and angelot they played,
With their gold heads bowed upon the strings,
And the soft wind that the slim flutes made,
Stirred in the feathers of their wings.
And in the midst serene and sweet
With God's light on his countenance
Was Vitus, with his gold shod feet,
Dancing in a courtly dance.
And round him were archangels four,
Michael, who guards God's citadel,
Raphael, whom children still implore,
And Gabriel and Uriel.
Thus long ago was Christ's behest,
And the saving grace that His red wounds be,
Unto this king made manifest,
And all his land of Sicily.
God sits within the highest Heaven,
His mercy neither tires nor faints,
All good gifts that may be given,
He gives unto His holy Saints.
This was the joy that Vitus gat;
To dance with Angels knee by knee,
Before he came to man's estate :
God send us all such Company.
Amen.
poem by Lord Alfred Douglas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Prince Fell For The Fair Maiden…
An allegorical ballad
Love bore the tale,
The black-eyed belle.
The prince loved her,
Despite the spell.
He married her,
Became a king.
The girl’s too shy
To be a queen.
She dreamed of dales,
Of sweet carnations.
A bird in her soul –
Her consolation!
The king’s cruel mum
And sisters said:
“We’ve brought you up,
Our dear lad! ”
Then the ocean of pains,
Of quarrels and worries.
The queen grows stubborn,
When the king dies…
The court’s alarmed,
The palace dives in vice,
The skies assault the earth,
Women cry out their eyes.
The old hag raged,
Was absorbed in wrath,
Couldn’t cast a spell,
And met her death.
The widow grew more fearless,
No longer was she a slave.
She could display her smartness,
And the court was filled with awe.
The court prospered and flourished,
Ended the ill-fated years,
The young queen loved her homeland,
That love made her shed tears.
And the spark of beauty – the love
Was born again… it sparked, it flamed,
The knight adored the young queen,
Faithful to her he remained.
Many know that story,
The ballad of glory:
The old tricks and shams
Repeat themselves.
Turned into a brave woman
The humble lass in the past...
She hoisted like sails
Her mourning dress.
The virtue was rewarded… at last.
29.O1.2OO2.
Translated from Georgian
poem by Janri Gogeshvili
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Musical Box
Play me "Old King Cole"
that I may join with you,
all your hearts now seem so far from me
it hardly seems to matter now.
And the nurse will tell you lies
of a Kingdom beyond the skies.
But I'm lost within this half-world,
it hardly seems to matter now.
Play me my song,
here it comes again.
Play me my song,
here it comes again.
Just a little bit,
just a little bit more time,
time left to live out my life.
Play me my song,
here it comes again.
Play me my song,
here it comes again.
Old King Cole was a merry ould soul,
and a merry old soul was he.
So he called for his pipe,
and he called for his bowl,
and he called the his fiddlers three.
And the clock, tick tock,
on the mantlepiece,
and I want,
and I fell,
and I know,
and I touch the wall.
She's a lady, she's got time.
Brush back you hair, and let me get to know your face.
She's a lady, she's mine.
Brush back you hair, and let me get to know your flesh.
I've been waiting here for so long
and all this time that passed me by.
It doesn't seem to matter now.
You stand there with your fixed expression
casting doubt on all I have to say.
Why don't you touch me, touch me?
Why don't you touch me, touch me?
Touch me now, now now, now, now ...
The musical box:
While Henry Hamilton-Smythe minor (8) was playing croquet with Cynthia Jane De Blaise-William (9), sweet smiling Cynthia
raised her mallet high and gracefully removed Henry's head. Two weeks later, in Henry's nursery, she discovered his treasured
musical box. Eagerly she opened it and as "Old King Cole" began to play, a small spirit-figure appeared. Henry had returned -
but not for long, for as he stood into the room his body began ageing rapidly, leaving a child's mind inside. A lifetime's desires
surged through him. Unfortunately the attempt to persuade Cynthia Jane to fulfill his romantic desire led his nurse to the
nursery to investigate the noise. Instinctively she hurled the musical box at the bearded child, destroying both
song performed by by Genesis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Ballad of God-Makers
A bird flew out at the break of day
From the nest where it had curled,
And ere the eve the bird had set
Fear on the kings of the world.
The first tree it lit upon
Was green with leaves unshed;
The second tree it lit upon
Was red with apples red;
The third tree it lit upon
Was barren and was brown,
Save for a dead man nailed thereon
On a hill above a town.
That right the kings of the earth were gay
And filled the cup and can;
Last night the kings of the earth were chill
For dread of a naked man.
'If he speak two more words,' they said,
'The slave is more than the free;
If he speak three more words,' they said,
'The stars are under the sea.'
Said the King of the East to the King of the West,
I wot his frown was set,
'Lo; let us slay him and make him as dung,
It is well that the world forget.'
Said the King of the West to the King of the East,
I wot his smile was dread,
'Nay, let us slay him and make him a god,
It is well that our god be dead.'
They set the young man on a hill,
They nailed him to a rod;
And there in darkness and in blood
They made themselves a god.
And the mightiest word was left unsaid,
And the world had never a mark,
And the strongest man of the sons of men
Went dumb into the dark.
Then hymns and harps of praise they brought,
Incense and gold and myrrh,
And they thronged above the seraphim,
The poor dead carpenter.
'Thou art the prince of all,' they sang,
'Ocean and earth and air.'
Then the bird flew on to the cruel cross,
And hid in the dead man's hair.
'Thou art the sun of the world,' they cried,
'Speak if our prayers be heard.'
And the brown bird stirred in the dead man's hair,
And it seemed that the dead man stirred.
Then a shriek went up like the world's last cry
From all nations under heaven,
And a master fell before a slave
And begged to be forgiven.
They cowered, for dread in his wakened eyes
The ancient wrath to see;
And the bird flew out of the dead Christ's hair,
And lit on a lemon-tree.
poem by G.K. Chesterton from The Wild Knight and Other Poems (1900)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Ballad of God-Makers
A bird flew out at the break of day
From the nest where it had curled,
And ere the eve the bird had set
Fear on the kings of the world.
The first tree it lit upon
Was green with leaves unshed;
The second tree it lit upon
Was red with apples red;
The third tree it lit upon
Was barren and was brown,
Save for a dead man nailed thereon
On a hill above a town.
That night the kings of the earth were gay
And filled the cup and can;
Last night the kings of the earth were chill
For dread of a naked man.
‘If he speak two more words,' they said,
‘The slave is more than the free;
If he speak three more words,' they said,
‘The stars are under the sea.'
Said the King of the East to the King of the West,
I wot his frown was set,
‘Lo, let us slay him and make him as dung,
It is well that the world forget.'
Said the King of the West to the King of the East,
I wot his smile was dread,
‘Nay, let us slay him and make him a god,
It is well that our god be dead.'
They set the young man on a hill,
They nailed him to a rod;
And there in darkness and in blood
They made themselves a god.
And the mightiest word was left unsaid,
And the world had never a mark,
And the strongest man of the sons of men
Went dumb into the dark.
Then hymns and harps of praise they brought,
Incense and gold and myrrh,
And they thronged above the seraphim,
The poor dead carpenter.
‘Thou art the prince of all,' they sang,
‘Ocean and earth and air.'
Then the bird flew on to the cruel cross,
And hid in the dead man's hair.
‘Thou art the son of the world.' they cried, `
‘Speak if our prayers be heard.'
And the brown bird stirred in the dead man's hair
And it seemed that the dead man stirred.
Then a shriek went up like the world's last cry
From all nations under heaven,
And a master fell before a slave
And begged to be forgiven.
They cowered, for dread in his wakened eyes
The ancient wrath to see;
And a bird flew out of the dead Christ's hair,
And lit on a lemon tree.
poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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O Lord have mercy on me, to God I commend my soul.
quote by Anne Boleyn
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Oh! Lisa With These Lovely Eyes
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
So please tell my soul to sympathize,
We shall cry forever in overcast skies
Lisa with the dark brown eyes,
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Heartbroken heart spoken, not taken back
To change a mind so is lifes dream
Lisa with the dark brown eyed
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
That blends your butter scotch face insight
Smiles which brings sparkles to my mind
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Many pre thoughts of your strays hypnotize
French, African, English culture dies
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
She dabbles her life in fiction trash
her soul with curious follies
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Loneliness, has come far a sad. sad day
Emptiness in your mind and heart pay
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Lisa with the dark, dark, brown eyes
You walk the world in beauty forgotten
They speak about you something forbidden
Lisa with the dark, dark, brown eyes
Lisa with the dark, dark, brown eyes
Your body your mind so whole same so
Your gave birth and I wish I could understand, understand
Lisa with the dark dark raven eyes
Lisa with the dark dark brown eyes
Curiosity is so special time flies, my sighs
Persuaded a fool to be wise, so wise how wise
Lisa with the dark dark brown eyes.
poem by Klayne Mario Burton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Jonquil And Fleur-de-lys
i
Jonquil was a shepherd lad,
White he was as the curded cream,
Hair like the buttercups he had,
And wet green eyes like a full chalk stream.
ii
His teeth were as white as the stones that lie
Down in the depths of the sun-bright river,
And his lashes danced like a dragon-fly
With drops on the gauzy wings that quiver.
iii
His lips were as red as round ripe cherries,
And his delicate cheek's and his rose-pink neck
Were stained with the colour of dog-rose berries
When they lie on the snow like a crimson fleck.
iv
His feet were all stained with the cowslips and grass
To amber and verdigris,
And through his folds one day did pass
The young prince Fleur-de-lys.
v
Fleur-de-lys was the son of the king.
He was as white as an onyx stone,
His hair was curled like a daffodil ring,
And his eyes were like gems in the queen's blue zone.
vi
His teeth were as white as the white pearls set
Round the thick white throat of the queen in the hall,
And his lashes were like the dark silk net
That she binds her yellow hair withal.
vii
His lips were as red as the red rubies
The king's bright dagger-hilt that deck,
And pale rose-pink as the amethyst is
Were his delicate cheeks and his rose-pink neck.
viii
His feet were all shod in shoes of gold,
And his coat was as gold as a blackbird's bill is,
With jewel on jewel manifold,
And wrought with a pattern of golden lilies.
ix
When Fleur-de-lys espied Jonquil
He was as glad as a bird in May ;
He tripped right swiftly a-down the hill,
And called to the shepherd boy to play.
x
This fell out ere the sheep-shearing,
That these two lads did sport and toy,
Fleur-de-lys the son of the king,
And sweet Jonquil the shepherd boy.
xi
And after they had played awhile,
Thereafter they to talking fell,
And full an hour they did beguile
While each his state and lot did tell.
xii
For Jonquil spake of the little sheep,
And the tender ewes that know their names,
And he spake of his wattled hut for sleep,
And the country sports and the shepherds' games.
xiii
And he plucked a reed from the edge that girds
The river bank, and with his knife
Made a pipe, with a breath like the singing birds
When they flute to their loves in a musical strife.
xiv
And he told of the night so long and still
When he lay awake till he heard the feet
Of the goat-foot god coming over the hill,
And the rustling sound as he passed through the wheat.
xv
And Fleur-de-lys told of the king and the court,
And the stately dames and the slender pages,
Of his horse and his hawk and his mimic fort,
And the silent birds in their golden, cages.
xvi
And the jewelled sword with the damask blade
That should be his in his fifteenth spring ;
And the silver sound that the gold horns made,
And the tourney lists and the tilting ring.
xvii
And after that they did devise
For mirth and sport, that each should wear
The other's clothes, and in this guise
Make play each other's parts to bear.
xviii
Whereon they stripped off all their clothes,
And when they stood up in the sun,
They were as like as one white rose
On one green stalk, to another one.
xix
And when Jonquil as a prince was shown
And Fleur-de-lys as a shepherd lad,
Their mothers' selves would not have known
That each the other's habit had.
xx
And Jonquil walked like the son of a king
With dainty steps and proud haut look ;
And Fleur-de-lys, that sweet youngling,
Did push and paddle his feet in the brook.
xxi
And while they made play in this wise,
Unto them all in haste did run,
Two lords of the court, with joyful cries,
That long had sought the young king's son.
xxii
And to Jonquil they reverence made
And said, ' My lord, we are come from the king,
Who is sore vexed that thou hast strayed
So far without a following.'
xxiii
Then unto them said Fleur-de-lys
' You do mistake, my lords, for know
That I am the son of the king, and this
Is sweet Jonquil, my playfellow.'
xxiv
Whereat one of these lords replied,
' Thou lying knave, I'll make thee rue
Such saucy words.' But Jonquil cried,
' Nay, nay, my lord, 'tis even true.'
xxv
Whereat these lords were sore distressed,
And one made answer bending knee,
' My lord the prince is pleased to jest.'
But Jonquil answered, ' Thou shalt see.'
xxvi
Sure never yet so strange a thing
As this before was seen,
That a shepherd was thought the son of a king,
And a prince a shepherd boy to have been.
xxvii
' Now mark me well, my noble lord,
A shepherd's feet go bare and cold,
Therefore they are all green from the sward,
And the buttercup makes a stain of gold.
xxviii
' That I am Jonquil thus thou shalt know,
And that this be very Fleur-de-lys
If his feet be like the driven snow,
And mine like the amber and verdigris.'
xxix
He lifted up the shepherd's frock
That clothed the prince, and straight did show
That his naked feet all under his smock
Were whiter than the driven snow.
xxx
He doffed the shoes and the clothes of silk
That he had gotten from Fleur-de-lys,
And all the rest was as white as milk,
But his feet were like amber and verdigris.
xxxi
With that they each took back his own,
And when his second change was done,
As a shepherd boy was Jonquil shown
And Fleur-de-lys the king's true son.
xxxii
By this the sun was low in the heaven,
And Fleur-de-lys must ride away,
But ere he left, with kisses seven,
He vowed to come another day.
poem by Lord Alfred Douglas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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