Page:Poems Greenwell.djvu/36

Where never goodly thing goes out,
 Nor evil cometh in!

At length the Baron broke the spell:
 "Sir Minstrel! sorry cheer—
For all thou playest deft and well—
 Methinks thou bringest here;
So now, that ye have made us grave.
 Your penance I will choose
To troll us out a joyous stave,
 As merry Trouveurs use,—
A song of jest and gaillardise
 To wreathe about the cup,
That, while we drain it, ladies' eyes
 May glisten from it up."

"Fain is my harp," the minstrel spake,
 "To bring you joy and ease,
Yet would it break if I should take
 A strain on it like these:
Its only skill is such to wake
 As may my Master please."
"Thy Master!" then the Baron smiled
 A scornful smile and proud,
"I did not deem ye brethren free
 To other service vowed
Than flowing of the Malvoisie
 And largesse clinking loud."
"Yea," said the Minstrel, "I am free,
 And yet a Lord is mine—