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The Ballad of Cornwall

By F. B. Money Coutts


SIR Tristram lay by a well,
    Making sad moan ;
Fast his tears fell,
For wild the wood through,
    Stricken with shrewd
    Sorrow, he ran,
When he deemed her untrue—
    La Beale Isoud !
For he loved her alone.


So as he lay,
     Wasted and wan,
    Scarce like a man,
Pricking that way
    His lady-love came,
With her damsels around,
    And her face all a-flame
With the breezes of May ;


                        46 A Ballad of Cornwall

While a brachet beside her
Still bayed the fair rider,
    Still leaped up and bayed her ;
A small scenting hound
    That Sir Tristram purveyed her.


So she rode on ;
     But the brachet behind
     Hung snuffing the wind,
Till seeking and crying
    Faster and faster,
Beside the well lying
    She found her dear master !
Then licking his ears
And cheeks wet with tears,
    For joy never resting
    Kept whining and questing.


Isoud (returned,
    Seeking her hound)
Soon as she learned
    Tristram was found,
Straightway alighting,
    Fell in a swound.


Won by her lover
Thence to recover,


                        47 By F. B. Money Coutts

Who shall the greeting
Tell of their meeting ?
Joy, by no tongue
E’er to be sung,
Passed in that plighting !


    Thus while they dallied,
    Forth the wood sallied
An horrible libbard, and bare
The brachet away to his lair !

MLA citation:

Coutts, F. B. Money. “The Ballad of Cornwall.” The Yellow Book, vol. 11, October 1896, pp. 45-47. Yellow Book Digital Edition, edited by Dennis Denisoff and Lorraine Janzen Kooistra, 2010-2014. Yellow Nineties 2.0, Ryerson University Centre for Digital Humanities, 2020.