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Poem by Alfred Bruce Douglas Perkin Warbeck i At Turney in Flanders I was born Fore-doomed to splendour and sorrow, For I was a king when they cut the corn, And they strangle me to-morrow. ii Oh ! why was I made so red and white, So fair and straight and tall ? And why were my eyes so blue and bright, And my hands so white and small ? iii And why was my hair like the yellow silk, And curled like the hair of a king ? And my body like the soft new milk That the maids bring from milking ? iv I was nothing but a weaver's son, I was born in a weaver's bed ; My brothers toiled and my sisters spun, And my mother wove for our bread. v I was the latest child she had, And my mother loved me the best. She would laugh for joy and anon be sad That I was not as the rest. vi For my brothers and sisters were black as the gate Whereby I shall pass to-morrow, But I was white and delicate, And born to splendour and sorrow. vii And. my father the weaver died full soon, But my mother lived for me ; And I had silk doublets and satin shoon And was nurtured tenderly. viii And the good priests had much joy of me, For I had wisdom and wit; And there was no tongue or subtlety But I could master it. ix And when I was fourteen summers old There came an English knight, With purple cloak and spurs of gold, And sword of chrysolite. x He rode through the town both sad and slow, And his hands lay in his lap ; He wore a scarf as white as the snow, And a snow-white rose in his cap. xi And he passed me by in the market-place, And he reined his horse and stared, And I looked him fair and full in the face, And he stayed with his head all bared. xii And he leaped down quick and bowed his knee, And took hold on my hand, And he said, " Is it ghost or wraith that I see, Or the White Rose of England .? " xiii And I answered him in the Flemish tongue, " My name is Peter Warbeckke, From Katharine de Faro I am sprung, And my father was John Osbeckke. xiv " My father toiled and weaved with his hand And bare neither sword nor shield And the White Rose of fair England Turned red on Bosworth field." xv And he answered, " What matter for anything ? For God hath given to thee The voice of the king and the face of the king, And the king thou shalt surely be." xvi And he wrought on me till the vesper bell, And I rode forth out of the town : And I might not bid my mother farewell, Lest her love should seem more than a crown. xvii And the sun went down, and the night waxed black, And the wind sang wearily ; And I thought on my mother, and would have gone back, But he would not suffer me. xviii And we rode, and we rode, was it nine days or three ? Till we heard the bells that ring For " my cousin Margaret of Burgundy," And I was indeed a king. xix For I had a hundred fighting men ' To come at my beck and call, And I had silk and fine linen To line my bed withal. xx They dressed me all in silken dresses, And little I wot did they reck Of the precious scents for my golden tresses, And the golden chains for my neck. xxi And all the path for " the rose " to walk Was strewn with flowers and posies, I was the milk-white rose of York, The rose of all the roses. xxii And the Lady Margaret taught me well, Till I spake without lisping Of Warwick and Clarence and Isabel, And " my father " Edward the King. xxiii And I sailed to Ireland and to France, And I sailed to fair Scotland, And had much honour and pleasaunce, And Katharine Gordon's hand. xxiv And after that what brooks it to say Whither I went or why ? I was as loath to leave my play And fight, as now to die. xxv For I was not made for wars and strife And blood and slaughtering, I was but a boy that loved his life, And I had not the heart of a king. xxvi Oh ! why hath God dealt so hardly with me, That such a thing should be done, That a boy should be born with a king's body And the heart of a weaver's son ? xxvii I was well pleased to be at the court, Lord of the thing that seems; It was merry to be a prince for sport, A king in a kingdom of dreams. xxviii But ever they said I must strive and fight To wrest away the crown, So I came to England in the night And I warred on Exeter town. xxix And the King came up with a mighty host And what could I do but fly ? I had three thousand men at the most, And I was most loath to die. xxx And they took me and brought me to London town, And I stood where all men might see ; I, that had well-nigh worn a crown, In a shameful pillory ! xxxi And I cried these words in the English tongue, " I am Peter Warbeckke, From Katharine de Faro I am sprung And my father was John Osbeckke. xxxii " My father toiled and weaved with his hand, And bare neither sword nor shield ; And the White Rose of fair England Turned red on Bosworth field." xxxiii And they gave me my life, but they held me fast Within this weary place ; But I wrought on my guards ere a month was past, With my wit and my comely face. xxxiv And they were ready to set me free, But when it was almost done, And I thought I should gain the narrow sea ' And look on the face of the sun, xxxv The lord of the tower had word of it, And, alas! for my poor hope, For this is the end of my face and my wit That to-morrow I die by the rope. xxxvi And the time draws nigh and the darkness closes, And the night is almost done. What had I to do with their roses, I, the poor weaver's son ? xxxvii hey promised me a bed so rich And a queen to be my bride, And I have gotten a narrow ditch And a stake to pierce my side. xxxviii They promised me a kingly part And a crown my head to deck, And I have gotten the hangman's cart And a hempen cord for my neck. xxxix Oh ! I would that I had never been born, To splendour and shame and sorrow, For it's ill riding to grim Tiborne, Where I must ride to-morrow. xl I shall dress me all in silk and scarlet, And the hangman shall have my ring, For though I be hanged like a low-born varlet They shall know I was once a king. xli And may I not fall faint or sick Till I reach at last to the goal, And I pray that the rope may choke me quick And Christ receive my soul. Alfred Bruce Douglas Alfred Bruce Douglas's other poems: ![]() 1203 Views |
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