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Title: The Stalwart Monk
Author: George Borrow [
More Titles by Borrow]
Above the wood a cloister towers,
Gilt window it displays;
There lie before it Kempions twelve,
The cloister they will raze.
There lie before it Kempions twelve,
The cloister down will tear;
The oxen and the cows they slew
The monks should have for fare.
The monk he out of the window looked,
Then shook both beam and wall:
"And be the Kemps no more than twelve,
I'll easily tame them all."
The monk he called to his serving lad:
"My club go fetch me in,
For I will out to the forest straight
And make them cease their din."
It took fifteen to bring the club,
And they strain'd all their might;
The monk took it up with fingers two
And swung it round so light.
He takes the club upon his back
And into the wood he's gone,
And there met him the Kempions twelve
Would fain set him upon.
They drew a circle on the ground,
And each one troll'd a song;
I tell to ye for verity
He silenced them all ere long.
First slew he four, then slew he five,
At length he all has slain;
It was the monk of the shaven crown
Would gladly fight again.
It was the monk of the shaven crown
Would seek for another fray,
So out of the wood across the wold
He blythely took his way.
So blythely out of the good green wood
He sped across the hill,
And there met him a hoary Trold
Whose name was Sivord Gill.
"If thou art the monk of the shaven crown
Who scath'd the warrior band,
Thou either from me shalt shamefully flee
Or manfully 'gainst me stand."
"I am the monk of the shaven crown
Who slew the warrior band,
And never from thee will I shamefully flee
But like a man will stand."
The first blow gave the Trold, it fell
Upon the monk's shoulder down,
'Midst of his shoulder broke the skin,
Bebloodied was his gown.
The next blow gave the monk, it struck
The Trold to the verdant sward:
"Now shame befall thee, shaven Monk,
The blows of thy club are hard.
"Now hold thy hand, thou shaven Monk,
And do not strike me more,
And I will give thee silver and gold,
And of coin a plenteous store."
The Monk he ran, the Trold he crept,
Still equal was their height;
Then shewed he him a little house
With doors of gold so bright.
Then shewed he him a little house
With golden doors fifteen;
There got the Monk of silver and gold
All he could wish I ween.
Seven lasts of silver, seven of gold,
To the cloisters he caus'd convey;
He bade them find a monk could wield
A club in as brave a way.
'Twas drawing fast to an evening hour
And the sun went down to rest,
Still fifteen Roman miles the monk
To the cloister had at least.
'Twas tending fast to the evening tide
And the sun to the earth did haste,
Yet he seized the first dish at the supper board
Ere the Abbot could get a taste.
Full fifteen monks he knock'd down when
No pottage he espied,
And up he hung fifteen because
The herrings were not fried.
Then out and spoke the little boy
Who waited at the meal:
"Each time the monk to the cloister comes
He thus with us will deal."
And it was getting late at night
And folks to bed should hie,
Then because the Abbot sat too long
He struck him out an eye.
The Abbot hurried off to bed,
No longer dared remain;
I say to ye for verity
He felt both shame and pain.
'Twas early in the morning tide,
The bells began to ring;
It was the monk of the shaven crown
Would neither read nor sing.
So stately strode he up the choir
Where the monks and nuns they stand,
Not one of them dared read or sing
For fear of his stalwart hand.
So they the Abbot pious and good
To a simple monk debased,
And they the Monk of the shaven crown
As Abbot o'er them placed.
And he the cloister held with might
Till thirty years were flown;
Then died as Abbot in mighty fame,
The Monk of the shaven crown.
[The end]
George Borrow's poem: The Stalwart Monk
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