THE LADY OF PLACE

I.

Five hundred years and more ago,

Third Edward rules us then,

From Fowey near fifty ships set sail,

With nigh eight hundred men :

No other Port on England's coast

An equal force could bring ;

For Calais when they weigh'd, they form'd

The Vanguard of the King.

II.

And when of Henries reign'd the Sixth,

The ships of Fowey went forth

To every sea, and every shore

East, West, and South, and North ;

And the Bay was like a forest

For tall and stately masts,

And flags of many countries

Came with the veering blasts.

III.

The Fowey men grew so haughty

They would no bonnet veil ;

But the folk of Rye and Winchelsea

Would make them dip the sail.

And on a day, to settle it,

They fought both man and boy ;

And from that time those Cornish lads

Were called Gallants of Fowey.

IV.

Still more they fell to merchandise,

And prouder still did grow :

Their cruisers harass'd all the coast

From Cherbourg to Bordeaux.

But one dark night, when scatter'd far

Their ships on Ocean wide,

A sound as from a cloud of sails

Came with the flowing tide.

V.

The Lady of Treffry remain'd

In her large mansion lone ;

Her husband to the distant chase

With horse and hounds had gone.

The watch-dogs bark'd ; then shouts-then shrieks

Rose from the sleeping town ;

The vengeful French, like unloosed fiends,

Went ranging up and down.

VI.

Here torches flash'd, there sledges crash'd,

Such was their devilish game ;

And soon from many a house-top

Burst out the crimson flame.

As in broad day men saw the bay,

The ships, the shores, the towers ;

Then blinding clouds of smoke came down,

And red flakes fell in showers.

VII.

But she was there, that Lady,

To play no woman's part ;

Though the great sufferings of her town

Had pierced her gentle heart :

And Fowey men, like a wall of steel,

Though few, about her stood ;

While some, to cut the ships adrift,

Crept out upon the flood.

VIII.

And on the wharves, and in the streets,

Was heard the awful clang

Of swords and weapons strange ; with fists

Some on the Frenchmen sprang ;

Some met them with a Cornish grip

They never more forgot ;

And many found the cornish hug

Much rougher than they thought.

IX.

But other were the scenes and sounds

Of that unhappy night,

When, like a flock of bleating lambs,

By the burning roof-trees' light,

Mothers their wailing children led

Through wood and shelter'd lane,

And up the winding moorland paths

Which to this day remain.

X.

Still calm look'd forth the Lady

From her embattled wall ;

Her presence was a power, her voice

Thrill'd like a trumpet's call.

Meanwhile the bells kept tolling,

To rouse the country round ;

And spires and turrets far away

Sent on the warning sound.

XI.

And long before the daylight

Fires lit the lofty peaks ;

And men were moving in the vales,

And stirring in the creeks.

Small need—so brave that Lady proved,

The Fowey gallants so true,

That at cock-crow, like baffled wolves,

The Frenchment all withdrew.

XII.

Whether a panic seized them,

I will not pause to learn ;

They had done enough of mischief,

And might perhaps return.

But, when they went to find their ships,

The Fowey folk laugh'd outright ;

For some were scuttled, some aground,

Some drifting out of sight.

XIII.

Next morning with his Posse

The Sheriff came at dawn ;

The flames still roar'd, the French on board

The ships they saved had gone :

Three cheers, then, for the Fowey gallants !

For the Lady three times three !

And, if the French should come again,

May our wives as fearless be !

XIV.

Changed is the world, much changed since then,

Yet will they come once more ?

Who knows—or cares—or fears ? who doubts

We'll serve them as before ?

Grace Darling died but yesterday

And others of her race

May yet be found to emulate

That Lady brave of Place.