Sir Payne rode swiftly cross the dale, Followed by gentles three, Nor stayed his horse 'till he had reached The hunter's company: And then he said, "Fair sirs, ye ride And drive our deer as free As if the land were all your own And not in forestry.
Lord Peverel yonder waits your ease, To know how this may be; Since he is lord of the forest wide, And will no trespass see. He bids you, as your suzerain lord, Forthwith to come to his knee, And as his liegeman humbly stand, And answer him truthfully."
"No man of his," cried the Franklin, "then Am I, as he knows full well, Though within the bounds of his forest walk It likes me sooth to dwell. My manor of Bowdon, I hold in chief From good King Harry I trow; And to him alone will I homage pay And make my fealty vow."
"Beware, Sir Franklin," cried Sir Payne, "Beware how thou play the fool! To brave the ire of thy suzerain lord Will lead to direful dule. Come on with me, and make thy peace, Better do that than worse; He'll hang thee on the forest tree If we take thee hence perforce."
"Take me you can't while I have thews, And these have bows and spears," Cried the brave Franklin. "Threaten him Who the Lord Peverel fears. We've broke no forest law to-day; Our hunting here's my right; And only ye can force me hence If strongest in the fight."
Each hunter then upraised his spear, Or twanged his good yew bow, While cloth yard shafts from every sheaf Glinted a threatening shew. And back Payne Peverel reined his horse, And, as he rode away, Cried, "Fare ye well, this day of sport Will breed a bloody day."
Well was it for the Saxons then The Normans rode unarmed, Or they had scantly left that field And homeward gone unharmed. Lord Peverel viewed their bows and spears, And marked their strong array, And grimly smiled, and softly said, "We'll right this wrong some day."
But e'er that day, for fearful crime, The Peverel fled the land, And lost his pride of place, and eke His lordship and command. For Ranulph Earl of Chester's death, By him most foully wrought, He fled fair England's realm for aye, And other regions sought.
Where, so 'tis writ, a monk he turned, And penance dreed so sore, That all the holy brotherhood Quailed at the pains he bore. And yet the haughty Norman blood No sign of dolour showed; But bore all stoutly to the last, And died beneath the rood.