Lo! round the lists, and round the lists,
  Bedecked with pennons gay,
Environed there with ladies fair,
  Sir Bullstrode held his way. 
High mounted on a gallant steed,
  And armed a-cap-a-pie,
His lance well graced by a pennon red,
A white plume nodded o’er his head,
  With ribbons at his knee.

“Why mounts not Kate the dais seat?”
  The father loudly cried. 
“She hath not finished her robing yet,”
  A lady quick replied. 
And now a shout rang all about,
  Ho! ho! there comes apace,
A Cataphract[A] of noble mien,
With armour bright as silver sheen,
  And eke of gentle grace.

[Footnote A:  A knight completely equipped; a word in common use in the times of chivalry.]

He bore for his escochion
  Dan Cupid with his dart,
And for his crest there was impressed
  A well-skewered bleeding heart;
His yellow streamer on his spear,
  Flew fluttering in the wind,
And thrice he waved it in the air,
As if to fan the ladies there,
  And thrice his head inclined.

“Who’s he, who’s he?” cried Ravensbeard;
  But no one there could say. 
“Knowest thou him?” cried some who heard;
  But each one answered Nay. 
“I am Sir Peveril,” said the knight,
  “If you my name would learn,
And I will for fair Katharine fight,
A lady’s love, and a lady’s right,
  And a lady’s choice to earn.”

The gauntlet thrown upon the ground,
  Sir Bullstrode laughed with joy: 
“Short work,” said he, “I’ll make of thee—­
  Methinks a beardless boy.” 
Nor sooner said than in he sprang
  And aimed a mortal blow,
The crenel upon the buckler rang,
And having achieved an echoing clang,
  It made no more ado.

The stranger knight wheeled quick as light,
  And charging with gratitude,
Gave him good thank on his left flank,
  And lo! a stream of blood! 
Shall he this knight, so dread in fight,
  Cede to this beardless foe,
And feel in his pain, returned again,
That vaunt of his so empty and vain,
  That vaunt of the carrion crow?

Stung by the wound, not less by shame,
  He gathered all his force,
And sprang again, with desperate aim,
  His enemy to unhorse;
But he who watched the pointed lance
  A dexterous movement made,
And saw his foe, as he missed the blow,
Rock in his selle both to and fro,
  And vault o’er his horse’s head.

Sore fainting from the loss of blood,
  He lay upon the ground,
Nor e’er a leech within his reach
  Can stop that fatal wound. 
And there with many an honour full,
  That brave and doughty knight,
Sir Bullstrode, who once strode the bull,
And killed (himself one) many a fool,
  Has closed his eyes in night.

VI.

And now within the ballion court
  There sits Sir Ravensbeard: 
“Who shall me say what popinjay
  Hath earned this proud reward?”
And there stands Katharine all confessed
  In maiden dignity;
“’Twas I, in ’fence of life sore pressed,
’Twas I, at honour’s high behest,
  This bad man made to die.