The Humourous Poetry of the English Language

81
Sir knight, now I'm your betters:
You shall not make of me your prey;
Sit there like a knave in fetters.
The knight, when she had served him soe,
He fretted, fum'd, and grumbled:
For he could neither stand nor goe,
But like a cripple tumbled.
Farewell, sir knight, the clock strikes ten,
Yet do not move nor stir, sir:
I'll send you my father's serving men,
To pull off your boots and spurs, sir.
This merry jest you must excuse,
You are but a stingless nettle:
You'd never have stood for boots or shoes,
Had you been a man of mettle.
All night in grievous rage he lay,
Roiling upon the plain-a;
Next morning a shepherd past that way,
Who set him right again-a.
Then mounting upon his steed so tall,
By hill and dale he swore-a:
I'll ride at once to her father's hall;
She shall escape no more-a.
I'll take her father by the beard,
I'll challenge all her kindred;
Each dastard soul shall stand affeard;
My wrath shall no more be hindred.
He rode unto her father's house,
Which every side was moated:
The lady heard his furious vows,
And all his vengeance noted.
Thought shee, sir knight, to quench your rage,
Once more I will endeavour: