O, ay,—’tis him of whom minstrels sing to this hour,—
When Martin Swart on ground lay slain;
In raging rout he never reel’d,
But like a rock did firm remain.’[1]
Ay, and then there was Martin Swart I have heard my grandfather talk of, and of the jolly Almains whom he commanded, with their slashed doublets and quaint hose, all frounced with ribands above the nether-stocks. Here’s a song goes of Martin Swart, too, an I had but memory for it:—
Saddle them, saddle them,
Martin Swart and his men;
Saddle them well.’”[2]
“True, good mine host—the day was long talked of; but if you sing so loud, you will awake more listeners than I care to commit my confidence unto.”
“I crave pardon, my worshipful guest,” said mine host, “I was oblivious. When an old song comes across us merry old knights of the spigot, it runs away with our discretion.”
“Well, mine host, my grandfather, like some other Cornish-men, kept a warm affection to the
- ↑ This verse, or something similar, occurs in a long ballad, or poem, on Flodden-Field, reprinted by the late Henry Weber.
- ↑ This verse of an old song actually occurs in an old play, where the singer boasts,—
“Courteously I can both counter and knack
Of Martin Swart and all his merry-men.”
