G THE EVE OF CRECY. WILLIAM MORRIS. OLD 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 ;- 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; And many an one grins under his hood: Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite. If I were rich I would kiss her feet, And thereabouts where the gold hems meet; Yet even now it is good to think, While my few poor varlets grumble and drink Of Margaret sitting glorious there, Likewise to-night I make good cheer, For, look you, my horse is good to prance 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 Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite. THE HAYSTACK IN THE FLOODS. WILLIAM MORRIS. AD she come all the way for this, a Yea, had she borne the dirt and rain Along the dripping leafless woods, To which the mud splash'd wretchedly; And on her eyelids broad and fair; The tears and rain ran down her face. By fits and starts they rode apace, And very often was his place Far off from her; he had to ride Ahead, to see what might betide When the roads cross'd; and sometimes, when There rose a murmuring from his men, Ah me! she had but little ease; And often for pure doubt and dread The wet reins; yea, and scarcely, too, For when they near'd that old soak'd hay, They saw across the only way That Judas, Godmar, and the three Red running lions dismally Grinn'd from his pennon, under which In one straight line along the ditch, So then, While Robert turn'd round to his men, Nay, love, 'tis scarcely two to one, At Poictiers where we made them run So fast-why, sweet my love, good cheer, The Gascon frontier is so near, Nought after this." But, "O," she said, "My God! my God! I have to tread The gratings of the Chatelet; And laughing, while my weak hands try To recollect how strong men swim. All this, or else a life with him, He answer'd not, but cried his cry, And bound him. Then they went along To Godmar; who said: "Now, Jehane, So fast, that, if this very hour He will not see the rain leave off- Sir Robert, or I slay you now." She laid her hand upon her brow, |