The Franklin’s Maid — (From ‘The White Company’) · The Old Huntsman

The Franklin’s Maid — (From ‘The White Company’)

The franklin he hath gone to roam,
The franklin’s maid she bides at home;
But she is cold, and coy, and staid,
And who may win the franklin’s maid?

There came a knight of high renown
In bassinet and ciclatoun;
On bended knee full long he prayed—
He might not win the franklin’s maid.

There came a squire so debonair,
His dress was rich, his words were fair.
He sweetly sang, he deftly played—
He could not win the franklin’s maid.

There came a mercer wonder-fine,
With velvet cap and gaberdine;
For all his ships, for all his trade,
He could not buy the franklin’s maid.

There came an archer bold and true,
With bracer guard and stave of yew;
His purse was light, his jerkin frayed—
Haro, alas! the franklin’s maid!

Oh, some have laughed and some have cried,
And some have scoured the countryside;
But off they ride through wood and glade,
The bowman and the franklin’s maid.

The Old Huntsman

There’s a keen and grim old huntsman
  On a horse as white as snow;
Sometimes he is very swift
  And sometimes he is slow.
But he never is at fault,
  For he always hunts at view
And he rides without a halt
     After you.

The huntsman’s name is Death,
  His horse’s name is Time;
He is coming, he is coming
  As I sit and write this rhyme;
He is coming, he is coming,
  As you read the rhyme I write;
You can hear the hoofs’ low drumming
     Day and night.

You can hear the distant drumming
  As the clock goes tick-a-tack,
And the chiming of the hours
  Is the music of his pack.
You may hardly note their growling
  Underneath the noonday sun,
But at night you hear them howling
     As they run.

And they never check or falter
  For they never miss their kill;
Seasons change and systems alter,
  But the hunt is running still.
Hark! the evening chime is playing,
  O’er the long grey town it peals;
Don’t you hear the death-hound baying
     At your heels?

Where is there an earth or burrow?
  Where a cover left for you?
A year, a week, perhaps to-morrow
  Brings the Huntsman’s death halloo!
Day by day he gains upon us,
  And the most that we can claim
Is that when the hounds are on us
     We die game.

And somewhere dwells the Master,
  By whom it was decreed;
He sent the savage huntsman,
  He bred the snow-white steed.
These hounds which run for ever,
  He set them on your track;
He hears you scream, but never
     Calls them back.

He does not heed our suing,
  We never see his face;
He hunts to our undoing,
  We thank him for the chase.
We thank him and we flatter,
  We hope—because we must—
But have we cause?  No matter!
     Let us trust!

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