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About this Poem 

From Ballads and Songs (London: Cassell and Company, 1896).

 

The Knightly Guerdon

  Untrue to my Ulric I never could be,
  I vow by the saints and the blessed Marie,
  Since the desolate hour when we stood by the shore,
  And your dark galley waited to carry you o'er:
  My faith then I plighted, my love I confess'd,
  As I gave you the BATTLE-AXE marked with your crest!

  When the bold barons met in my father's old hall,
  Was not Edith the flower of the banquet and ball?
  In the festival hour, on the lips of your bride,
  Was there ever a smile save with THEE at my side?
  Alone in my turret I loved to sit best,
  To blazon your BANNER and broider your crest.

  The knights were assembled, the tourney was gay!
  Sir Ulric rode first in the warrior-mle.
  In the dire battle-hour, when the tourney was done,
  And you gave to another the wreath you had won!
  Though I never reproached thee, cold, cold was my breast,
  As I thought of that BATTLE-AXE, ah! and that crest!

  But away with remembrance, no more will I pine
  That others usurped for a time what was mine!
  There's a FESTIVAL HOUR for my Ulric and me:
  Once more, as of old, shall he bend at my knee;
  Once more by the side of the knight I love best
  Shall I blazon his BANNER and broider his crest.

This poem is in the public domain. 

This poem is in the public domain. 

William Makepeace Thackeray

William Makepeace Thackeray, born July 18, 1811, was an English writer best known for his novels, particularly The History of Henry Esmond, Esq. (The Mershon Company Publishers, 1852) and Vanity Fair (Bradbury and Evans, 1848). While in school, Thackeray began writing poems, which he published in a number of magazines, chiefly Fraser and Punch. He died on December 24, 1863.

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  Riding from Coleraine
    (Famed for lovely Kitty),
  Came a Cockney bound
    Unto Derry city;
  Weary was his soul,
    Shivering and sad, he
  Bumped along the road
    Leads to Limavaddy.

  Mountains stretch'd around,
    Gloomy was their tinting,
  And the horse's hoofs
    Made a dismal clinting;
  Wind
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  Under the stone you behold,
  Buried, and coffined, and cold,
  Lieth Sir Wilfrid the Bold.

  Always he marched in advance,
  Warring in Flanders and France,
  Doughty with sword and with lance.

  Famous in Saracen fight,
  Rode in his youth the good knight,
  Scattering Paynims in flight.

  Brian the
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  Ho, pretty page, with the dimpled chin,
    That never has known the Barber's shear,
  All your wish is woman to win,
  This is the way that boys begin,—
    Wait till you come to Forty Year.

  Curly gold locks cover foolish brains,
    Billing and cooing is all your cheer;
  Sighing and singing of