Would rouse all England another day! 
  ’Twas the timely aid of a friend in need,
    And, seldom as Richard felt the power
  Of a service past, he remembered the deed
    And cherished him ever from that hour: 
He made him his bard, with nought to do
    But court the ladies and court the Nine,
  And every day bring something new
    To sing for the revellers over their wine;
  With once a year a pipe of Sherry,
    A suit of clothes, and a haunch of venison,
  To make himself and his fellows merry,—­
    The salary now of Alfred Tennyson.

  Marcadee was a stout Brabancon,
  With conscience weak and muscles strong,
  Who roamed about from clime to clime,
  The side of virtue or yet of crime
  Ready to take in a regular way
  For any leader and regular pay;
  Who trusted steel, and thought it odd
  To fear the Devil or honor God. 
  His forte was not in the field alone,
    He was no common fighter,
  For in all accomplishments he shone,—­
    At least, in all the lighter. 
  To lance or lute alike au fait,
    With grasp now firm, now light,
  He flourished this to knightly lay,
    And that to lay a knight. 
  Ready in fashion to lead the ton,
    In the battle-field his men,
  He danced like a Zephyr, and, harness on,
    Could walk his mile in ten. 
  And Nature gave him such a frame,
    His tailor such a fit,
  That, whether a head or a heart his aim,
    He always made a hit. 
  Wherever he went, the ladies dear
    Would very soon adore him,
  And, quite of course, the lords would sneer,—­
    But never sneer before him! 
  Perhaps it fared with the ladies worse
    Than it fared with their gallants;
  For he broke a vow with as slight remorse
    As he ever broke a lance. 
  Thus, tilting here and jilting there,
  He fought a foe or he fooled a fair,
    But little recking how;
  So deadly smooth, so cruel and vain,
  He might have made a capital Cain,
    Or a splendid dandy now. 
  In short, if you looked o’er land and sea,
    From London to the Niger,
  You certainly must have said with me,—­
  If Richard was lion, Marcadee
    Might well have been the tiger.

  A month went by.  They lay there still,
  And chafed with nothing but time to kill,—­
  A tough old foe.  Observe the way
  They laid him out, as thus:—­One day,—­
    ’Twas after dinner and afternoon,
  When the noise was over of knife and fork,
  And only was heard an occasional cork
    And Blondel idly thrumming a tune,—­
  King Richard pushed the wine along,
  And rapped the table, and cried, “A song! 
  Dulness I hold a shame, a sin
  Against good wine.  Come, Blondel, begin!”
  Blondel coughed,—­was “half afraid,”—­
  Was “out last night on a serenade,
  And caught a cold,”—­his “voice was gone,—­
  And really, just now, his head”—­“Go on!”
  He bowed, and swept the chords—­“Brrrrang”—­
  With a handful of notes, and thus he sang:—­