XXXVII. The cupbcarer was courtly bred, nor was the boon denied, The golden cup he took again, and bore it to the bride; "Lady," he said, "your reverend guest sends this, and bids me pray, That, in thy noble courtesy, thou pledge the palmer grey." XXXVIII. The ring hath caught the Lady's eye, she views it close and near, Then might you hear her shrick aloud, "The Moringer is here!" Then might you see her start from scat, while tears in torrents fell, But whether 'twas for joy or woe, the ladies best can tell. XXXIX. But loud she utter'd thanks to Heaven, and every saintly power, That had return'd the Moringer before the midnight hour; And loud she utter'd vow on vow, that never was there bride, That had like her preserved her troth, or been so sorely tried. XL. "Yes, here I claim the praise," she said, "to constant matrons due, Who keep the troth that they have plight, so steadfastly and true; For count the term howe'er you will, so that you count aright, Seven twelvemonths and a day arc out when bells toll twelve to-night." XLI. It was Marstetten then rose up, his falchion there he drew, He kneel'd before the Moringer, and down his weapon 66 threw ; 'My oath and knightly faith are broke," these were the words he said, "Then take, my licge, thy vassal's sword, and take thy vassal's head." XLII. The noble Moringer he smiled, and then aloud did say, "He gathers wisdom that hath roam'd seven twelvemonths and a day; My daughter now hath fifteen years, fame speaks her sweet and fair, I give her for the bride you lose, and name her for my heir. XLIII. "The young bridegroom hath youthful bride, the old bridegroom the old, Whose faith was kept till term and tide so punctually were told; But blessings on the warder kind that oped my castle gate, For had I come at morrow tide, I came a day too late." THE NORMAN HORSESHOE. AIR-The War-Song of the Men of Glamorgan, The Welsh, inhabiting a mountainous country, and possessing only an inferior breed of horses, were usually unable to encounter the shock of the Anglo-Norman cavalry. Occasionally, however, they were successful in repelling the invaders; and the following verses are supposed to celebrate a defeat of CLARE, Earl of Striguil and Pembroke, and of Neville, Baron of Chepstow, Lords-Marchers of Monmouthshire. Rymny is a stream which divides the counties of Monmouth and Glamorgan: Caerphili, the scene of the supposed battle, is a vale upon its bunks, dignified by the ruins of a very ancient castle. I. RED glows the forge in Striguil's bounds, And armourers, with iron toil, Barb many a steed for battle's broil, Foul fall the hand which bends the steel That e'er shall dint a sable wound |