Damsel Mettie

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Title:     Damsel Mettie
Author: George Borrow [More Titles by Borrow]

Knights Peter and Olaf they sat o'er the board,
Betwixt them in jesting passed many a word.

"Now hear thou, Sir Olaf my comrade, do tell
Why thou hast ne'er wedded some fair demoiselle?"

"What need with a housewife myself to distress,
So long as my little gold horn I possess?

"So long as my little gold horn I possess,
I lure every maid I may wish to caress.

"The Damsel is not in the world to be found,
But what I can lure with that little horn's sound."

"I know a proud damsel that dwells by the rill,
On her thou couldst never accomplish thy will.

"I'll gage my war courser, the steady and tried,
Thou never canst lure the fair Mettie, my bride."

"Against him I'll gage my grey courser of power,
That she shall this evening repair to my bower.

"My courser so proud, and my neck bone so white
I'll gage that I lure the fair Mettie this night."

'Twas late in the evening, mist fell from the skies,
Sir Olaf he plays in his very best guise.

Sir Olaf he plays on his gold harp a strain,
That heard the proud Mettie far over the plain.

Sir Olaf a tune on his golden horn blew,
To the house of fair Mettie the thrilling sounds flew.

Long stood the fair Mettie and listened thereto:
"Now shall I or not to that horn-player go?"

Long stood damsel Mettie in doubt and in care:
"No one of my maidens take with me I dare."

The maid and the little brown messan her friend,
Through the paths of the forest so lonely they wend.

Her mantle of blue the fair Mettie puts on,
And unto the bower of Sir Olaf she's gone.

On the door of the chamber she gave a low knock:
"Sir Olaf, I pray thee, arise and unlock."

"O none have I summoned to me at this hour,
And unto no one will I open my door."

"Sir Olaf, arise, let me in I request,
At what I have heard I'm so sorely distrest."

"At what thou hast heard, be thou glad or distrest,
Thou comest not into my bower of rest.

"But soon should the door to thee open I wot,
Provided Sir Peter thy sweetheart were not.

"Although in my heart I may love thee full dear,
Sir Peter for me to admit thee's too near."

"Sir Olaf, arise, let me in I implore,
The night-dew falls chilly my scarlet dress o'er."

"Though chill fall the night-dew thy scarlet dress o'er,
I dare not, O Mettie, fling open my door."

"Since into thy bower thou lett'st me not come,
O let thy swains guide me, dear heart, to my home."

"The night it is bright, and the moon sheds her ray,
Fair maid, thou wilt find without trouble thy way.

"The moon's in the sky, and shines clear o'er the mead,
So back by thyself to thy chamber proceed."

The maid, and the little brown messan her friend,
They home through the forest so lonely must wend.

And when to the gate of the castle she came,
Sir Peter was leaning against it his frame.

"Thrice welcome, thrice welcome, thou proud Mettelil,
Say where hast thou been in the night season still?"

"I walked out, my lord, by no mortal eye seen,
And I gathered the herbs both the blue and the green.

"The herbs I collected with diligent hand,
Which just at this season in fullest bloom stand.

"I stood in the meadows throughout the long night,
And harked to the nightingale's song with delight."

"No! not to the song from the nightingale's throat,
But unto Sir Olaf his gilded horn's note.

"This night's walk, and others of similar sort,
Will make thee the subject of common report.

"The walk of this night, and perhaps many more,
By the Saints, my fair Mettie, this walking give o'er.

"Now hear thou proud Mettie, to bed hie away,
And 'neath the white linen thy fair body lay.

"Depart to thy bed, that I rede thee to do,
Would'st have me remain to thee tender and true.

"I've lost now my courser, the steady and tried,
Because thou hast proved thee a false, fickle bride."

And what became of her no man ever knew,
Nor whither her ashes before the wind flew.

But as soon as her bower in ruddy flame blazed
In the breast of Sir Peter such anguish was raised.

Sir Peter he grieved to his very death day,
Sir Olaf ne'er ventured to cross his friend's way.

I counsel each swain, in affectionate part,
To tempt not too hardly the maid of his heart.

[The end]
George Borrow's poem: Damsel Mettie

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