thee, arise and unlock.”

“O none have I summoned to me at this hour,
And unto no one will I open my door.”

“Sir Olaf, arise, let me in I request,
At what I have heard I’m so sorely distrest.”

“At what thou hast heard, be thou glad or distrest,
Thou comest not into my bower of rest.

“But soon should the door to thee open I wot,
Provided Sir Peter thy sweetheart were not.

“Although in my heart I may love thee full dear,
Sir Peter for me to admit thee’s too near.”

“Sir Olaf, arise, let me in I implore,
The night-dew falls chilly my scarlet dress o’er.”

“Though chill fall the night-dew thy scarlet dress o’er,
I dare not, O Mettie, fling open my door.”

“Since into thy bower thou lett’st me not come,
O let thy swains guide me, dear heart, to my home.”

“The night it is bright, and the moon sheds her ray,
Fair maid, thou wilt find without trouble thy way.

“The moon’s in the sky, and shines clear o’er the mead,
So back by thyself to thy chamber proceed.”

The maid, and the little brown messan her friend,
They home through the forest so lonely must wend.

And when to the gate of the castle she came,
Sir Peter was leaning against it his frame.

“Thrice welcome, thrice welcome, thou proud Mettelil,
Say where hast thou been in the night season still?”

“I walked out, my lord, by no mortal eye seen,
And I gathered the herbs both the blue and the green.

“The herbs I collected with diligent hand,
Which just at this season in fullest bloom stand.

“I stood in the meadows throughout the long night,
And harked to the nightingale’s song with delight.”

“No! not to the song from the nightingale’s throat,
But unto Sir Olaf his gilded horn’s note.

“This night’s walk, and others of similar sort,
Will make thee the subject of common report.

“The walk of this night, and perhaps many more,
By the Saints, my fair Mettie, this walking give o’er.

“Now hear thou proud Mettie, to bed hie away,
And ’neath the white linen thy fair body lay.

“Depart to thy bed, that I rede thee to do,
Would’st have me remain to thee tender and true.

“I’ve lost now my courser, the steady and tried,
Because thou hast proved thee a false, fickle bride.”

And what became of her no man ever knew,
Nor whither her ashes before the wind flew.

But as soon as her bower in ruddy flame blazed
In the breast of Sir Peter such anguish was raised.

Sir Peter he grieved to his very death day,
Sir Olaf ne’er ventured to cross his friend’s way.

I counsel each swain, in affectionate part,
To tempt not too hardly the maid of his heart.

* * * * *

London:
Printed for THOMAS J. WISE, Hampstead, N.W.
Edition limited to Thirty Copies.

***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PROUD SIGNILD***