While The Billy BoilsSearchSir William rode to Virland--He rode to join my sire;And stubbornly behind himRode Swithin, his old squire.Sir William would have left himTo rest in peace, behind;But horse and sword were everMore to the old man's mind.
Old Swithin was a grey-beard,Still strong of heart and lung,Who'd fought and loved and wassailedWhen old Dame Ruth was young.But, overlooked, neglected,His heart was ever pained,Because of that old knighthoodThat once he should have gained.
My knighthood, new upon me,Still made me chafe and fret--That fair new coat of honourHad not worn easy yet.But he was more impatientAt any evil done,Because of that lost knighthoodThat he had fairly won.
And surely to the thoughtlessSome mirth it did afford,To look on that old grey-beardWho wore his father's sword.The grand old soul of honour!For long years tempest tost--But many men are nobleFor knighthoods that were lost.
We met the King, my father--A quiet man to meet--And his men looked like soldiersThat marched to sure defeat,With many carts and litters,And we knew what they meant,And lean apothecaries,And physicians militant.
And--well, we took the city,The city that was ours,Although there stood no rebelsOn all its walls and towers.Our men hung back a momentAs from a thing accurst,And Swithin begged a favour,That he should ride in first.
But thus they rode together--The king and squire and knight--Sir William on the left hand,And my father on the right.I followed that old grey-beard,And our men followed me,There was in all my lifetimeNo better sight to see.
The Black Death held the city,With plague and famine there--With misery, pain, and terror,And helpless, dumb despair.'Twas held, in other cities,A horror that was vague,But here strong men had shrieked it--The Plague! The Plague! The Plague!
We built the fires, and fought itWith reeking smoke for shields,And bore the sick in hundredsInto the open fields.Into the blackest quartersOld Swithin led his men,And, with some ghastly burden,He led them out again.
We cleansed and fumed the houses,The streets and alleys then--And lean apothecariesCan fight like other men.For they and the physiciansIn the tents fought side by side('Twas strange, when all was ended,How few of our men died).
But, often, for the noblest,'Gainst death there are no charms;I saw old Swithin staggerWith a sick child in his arms.We bore him to the open--'Twas but a swoon we thought--And we laid him very gentlyOn that last field he'd fought.
My father, in a gentleOr in a bitter mood--Because he thought of Swithin'sOld King's ingratitude--With his own sword touched him lightly,While each man felt a thrill,And he said, "Rise up, Sir Swithin"--But he lay very still.