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Title: The Eve Of Crecy
Author: William Morris [
More Titles by Morris]
Gold on her head, and gold on her feet,
And gold where the hems of her kirtle meet,
And a golden girdle round my sweet;
_Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._
Margaret's maids are fair to see,
Freshly dress'd and pleasantly;
Margaret's hair falls down to her knee;
_Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._
If I were rich I would kiss her feet;
I would kiss the place where the gold hems meet,
And the golden girdle round my sweet:
_Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._
Ah me! I have never touch'd her hand;
When the arriere-ban goes through the land,
Six basnets under my pennon stand;
_Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._
And many an one grins under his hood:
Sir Lambert du Bois, with all his men good,
Has neither food nor firewood;
_Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._
If I were rich I would kiss her feet,
And the golden girdle of my sweet,
And thereabouts where the gold hems meet;
_Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._
Yet even now it is good to think,
While my few poor varlets grumble and drink
In my desolate hall, where the fires sink,
_Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._
Of Margaret sitting glorious there,
In glory of gold and glory of hair,
And glory of glorious face most fair;
_Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._
Likewise to-night I make good cheer,
Because this battle draweth near:
For what have I to lose or fear?
_Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._
For, look you, my horse is good to prance
A right fair measure in this war-dance,
Before the eyes of Philip of France;
_Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._
And sometime it may hap, perdie,
While my new towers stand up three and three,
And my hall gets painted fair to see,
_Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._
That folks may say: Times change, by the rood,
For Lambert, banneret of the wood,
Has heaps of food and firewood;
_Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite;_
And wonderful eyes, too, under the hood
Of a damsel of right noble blood.
St. Ives, for Lambert of the Wood!
_Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._
[The end]
William Morris's poem: Eve Of Crecy
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