When early morning seems but eve And they that still refuse receive: When speech unknown men understand; And floods are crossed upon dry land. Within the Sacred Walls beware The Shaven Head that boasts of Hair, For when the road attains the rail The Pilgrim’s great attempt shall fail.
Heretics all, whoever you be, In Tarbes or Nimes, or over the sea, You never shall have good words from me. _Caritas non conturbat me._
But Catholic men that live upon wine Are deep in the water, and frank, and fine; Wherever I travel I find it so, _Benedicamus Domino_.
On childing women that are forlorn, And men that sweat in nothing but scorn: That is on all that ever were born, _Miserere Domine_.
To my poor self on my deathbed, And all my dear companions dead, Because of the love that I bore them, _Dona Eis Requiem_.
THE DEATH AND LAST CONFESSION OF WANDERING PETER
When Peter Wanderwide was young He wandered everywhere he would: And all that he approved was sung, And most of what he saw was good.
When Peter Wanderwide was thrown By Death himself beyond Auxerre, He chanted in heroic tone To priests and people gathered there:
“If all that I have loved and seen Be with me on the Judgment Day, I shall be saved the crowd between From Satan and his foul array.
“Almighty God will surely cry, ‘St. Michael! Who is this that stands With Ireland in his dubious eye, And Perigord between his hands,
“‘And on his arm the stirrup-thongs, And in his gait the narrow seas, And in his mouth Burgundian songs, But in his heart the Pyrenees?’
“St. Michael then will answer right (And not without angelic shame), ‘I seem to know his face by sight: I cannot recollect his name...?’
“St. Peter will befriend me then, Because my name is Peter too: ‘I know him for the best of men That ever walloped barley brew.
“‘And though I did not know him well And though his soul were clogged with sin, _I_ hold the keys of Heaven and Hell. Be welcome, noble Peterkin.’
“Then shall I spread my native wings And tread secure the heavenly floor, And tell the Blessed doubtful things Of Val d’Aran and Perigord.”
This was the last and solemn jest Of weary Peter Wanderwide. He spoke it with a failing zest, And having spoken it, he died.
I mean to write with all my strength (It lately has been sadly waning), A ballad of enormous length-- Some parts of which will need explaining.[1]