A world of memories
come jigging back--foolish fancies, dreams, desires, all beckoning
and bobbing to the old tune:
"Oh had I but loved with a boyish love,
It would have been well for me."
How does Bayly manage it? What is the trick of it, the obvious,
simple, meretricious trick, which somehow, after all, let us mock as
we will, Bayly could do, and we cannot? He really had a slim,
serviceable, smirking, and sighing little talent of his own; and--
well, we have not even that. Nobody forgets
"The lady I love will soon be a bride."
Nobody remembers our cultivated epics and esoteric sonnets, oh
brother minor poet, mon semblable, mon frere! Nor can we rival,
though we publish our books on the largest paper, the buried
popularity of
"Gaily the troubadour
Touched his guitar
When he was hastening
Home from the war,
Singing, "From Palestine
Hither I come,
Lady love! Lady love!
Welcome me home!"
Of course this is, historically, a very incorrect rendering of a
Languedoc crusader; and the impression is not mediaeval, but of the
comic opera. Any one of us could get in more local colour for the
money, and give the crusader a cithern or citole instead of a
guitar. This is how we should do "Gaily the Troubadour" nowadays:-
"Sir Ralph he is hardy and mickle of might,
Ha, la belle blanche aubepine!
Soldans seven hath he slain in fight,
Honneur e la belle Isoline!
"Sir Ralph he rideth in riven mail,
Ha, la belle blanche aubepine!
Beneath his nasal is his dark face pale,
Honneur e la belle Isoline!
"His eyes they blaze as the burning coal,
Ha, la belle blanche aubepine!
He smiteth a stave on his gold citole,
Honneur e la belle Isoline!
"From her mangonel she looketh forth,
Ha, la belle blanche aubepine!
'Who is he spurreth so late to the north?'
Honneur e la belle Isoline!
"Hark! for he speaketh a knightly name,
Ha, la belle blanche aubepine!
And her wan cheek glows as a burning flame,
Honneur e la belle Isoline!
"For Sir Ralph he is hardy and mickle of might,
Ha, la belle blanche aubepine!
And his love shall ungirdle his sword to-night,
Honneur e la belle Isoline!"
Such is the romantic, esoteric, old French way of saying -
"Hark, 'tis the troubadour
Breathing her name
Under the battlement
Softly he came,
Singing, "From Palestine
Hither I come.
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