The Burial Of William The Conqueror

Oh, who may this dead warrior be
    That to his grave they bring?
'Tis William, Duke of Normandy,
    The conqueror and king.

Across the sea, with fire and sword,
    The English crown he won;
The lawless Scots they owned him lord,
    But now his rule is done.

A king should die from length of years,
    A conqueror in the field,
A king amid his people's tears,
    A conqueror on his shield.

But he, who ruled by sword and flame,
    Who swore to ravage France,
Like some poor serf without a name,
    Has died by mere mischance.

To Caen now he comes to sleep,
    The minster bells they toll,
A solemn sound it is and deep,
    May God receive his soul!

With priests that chant a wailing hymn,
    He slowly comes this way,
To where the painted windows dim
    The lively light of day.

He enters in.    The townsfolk stand
    In reverent silence round,
To see the lord of all the land
    Take house in narrow ground.

While, in the dwelling-place he seeks,
    To lay him they prepare,
One Asselin FitzArthur speaks,
    And bids the priests forbear.

'The ground whereon this abbey stands
    Is mine,' he cries, 'by right.
'Twas wrested from my father's hands
    By lawlessness and might.

Duke William took the land away,
    To build this minster high.
Bury the robber where ye may,
    But here he shall not lie.'

The holy brethren bid him cease;
    But he will not be stilled,
And soon the house of God's own peace
    With noise and strife is filled.

And some cry shame on Asselin,
    Such tumult to excite,
Some say, it was Duke William's sin,
    And Asselin does right.

But he round whom their quarrels keep,
    Lies still and takes no heed.
No strife can mar a dead man's sleep,
    And this is rest indeed.

Now Asselin at length is won
    The land's full price to take,
And let the burial rites go on,
    And so a peace they make.

When Harold, king of Englishmen,
    Was killed in Senlac fight,
Duke William would not yield him then
    A Christian grave or rite.

Because he fought for keeping free
    His kingdom and his throne,
No Christian rite nor grave had he
    In land that was his own.

And just it is, this Duke unkind,
    Now he has come to die,
In plundered land should hardly find
    Sufficient space to lie.

Robert Fuller Murray

Robert Fuller Murray was a Scottish poet known for his lyrical and expressive poetry. Born on December 26, 1863, in Roxbury, Massachusetts, he moved to Scotland at a young age. Despite a short life, ending on April 15, 1894, Murray left a significant mark with his works, which often reflected themes of nature and human emotion. His poetry is characterized by its elegance and depth of feeling. Murray's influence remained through posthumous publications and collections of his poetry.

Robert Fuller Murray

The Caged Thrush

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Youth Renewed

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

A Summer Morning

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

To Number 27X.

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

English

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Song Of The Battle Of Hastings.

The Norman armament beneath thy rocks, St Valerie,
Is moored; and, streaming to the morn, three hundred banners fly,
Of crimson silk; with golden cross, effulgent o'er the rest,
That banner, proudest in the fleet, streams, which the Lord had blessed.
The gale is fair, the sails are set, cheerily the south wind blows,
And Norman archers, all in steel, have grasped their good yew-bows;
Aloud the harpers strike their harps, whilst morning light is flung
Upon the cross-bows and the shields, that round the masts are hung.
Speed on, ye brave! 'tis William leads; bold barons, at his word,
Lo! sixty thousand men of might for William draw the sword.

So, bound to England's southern shore, we rolled upon the seas,
And gallantly the white sails set were, and swelling to the breeze.
On,...

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The Fatal Horse.

Of creatures that to man attend,
    His pastime, or his wealth;
The Horse we cherish as a friend,
    To sickness and to health.

Bless them, who shield a steed from woe.
    By age from toil releas'd!
And hated be the proud, who shew
    No mercy to their beast!

A wretch once doom'd, tho' rich and strong,
    His faithful horse to bleed,
But tell his fate, my moral song,
    For that atrocious deed!

An antient knight, of Kentish race;
    Of his athletic frame
Prone to indulge the passions base,
    Sir Geoffrin his name,

Against a priest indulg'd his rage,
    Who charitably good,
To shield a widow's helpless age,
    His avarice withstood.

With abject choler fierce and hot,
    The knight perforce would...

William Hayley

William Rufus

The reign of King William the Second
Were an uninteresting affair
There's only two things that's remembered of him
That's his sudden death and his red hair.

He got his red hair from his Mother,
The crown that he wore were his Dad's,
And the arrow that came at the end of his reign
Were a well-deserved gift from the lads.

For William were cunning and cruel,
Addicted to every vice
He'd bluster and perjure and ravage and murder,
Apart from all that... he weren t nice.

He'd two brothers called Robert and Henry,
One older, one younger than he,
And by terms of the Will of old Conqueror Bill
The estate had been split into three.

Thus William became King of England;
And Normandy... that went to Bob;
Young Hal got no throne, but receive...

Marriott Edgar

Death Of Sir John.

What news to all alike brings startling sorrow?
And he is dead, the vigorous chieftain dead?
Nor e'en for him would death still brook to-morrow?
No more shall followers vaunt and foemen dread;
No more by him the hot debate be led;
No more the lively tale, the clever jest
Of him the State's most skilful, ablest head,
Albeit not her sternest, not her best,
But such is over now, then let his ashes rest.

When all was anarchy, he seized the reins,
And broke and trained the fiery coursers young,
And from so many wide and fair domains
One great Dominion 'neath his guidance sprung,
Which he made glorious, till the nations rung
With our renown and his immortal name.
But now his day was o'er; his work was done.
'Twas well. - He lived to hear his land's acclaim,

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Shameful Death

There were four of us about that bed;
    The mass-priest knelt at the side,
I and his mother stood at the head,
    Over his feet lay the bride;
We were quite sure that he was dead,
    Though his eyes were open wide.

He did not die in the night,
    He did not die in the day,
But in the morning twilight
    His spirit pass'd away,
When neither sun nor moon was bright,
    And the trees were merely grey.

He was not slain with the sword,
    Knight's axe, or the knightly spear,
Yet spoke he never a word
    After he came in here;
I cut away the cord
    From the neck of my brother dear.

He did not strike one blow,
    For the recreants came behind,
In a place where the hornbeams grow,
    A path right hard to find,

William Morris

The Battle Of Hastings

I'll tell of the Battle of Hastings,
As happened in days long gone by,
When Duke William became King of England,
And 'Arold got shot in the eye.

It were this way - one day in October
The Duke, who were always a toff
Having no battles on at the moment,
Had given his lads a day off.

They'd all taken boats to go fishing,
When some chap in t' Conqueror's ear
Said 'Let's go and put breeze up the Saxons;'
Said Bill - 'By gum, that's an idea.'

Then turning around to his soldiers,
He lifted his big Norman voice,
Shouting - 'Hands up who's coming to England.'
That was swank 'cos they hadn't no choice.

They started away about tea-time,
The sea was so calm and so still,
And at quarter to ten the next morning
They arrived at a place ...

Marriott Edgar