"Well," said he, "by St. Richard and St. George, but ye never heard THIS song, for I composed it this very afternoon as I took my bath after the melee. Did I not, Blondel?"Blondel, of course, was ready to take an affidavit that his Majesty had done as he said, and the King, thrumming on his guitar with his great red fingers and thumbs, began to sing out of tune and as follows:--"COMMANDERS OF THE FAITHFUL.
"The Pope he is a happy man, His Palace is the Vatican, And there he sits and drains his can:
The Pope he is a happy man.
I often say when I'm at home, I'd like to be the Pope of Rome.
"And then there's Sultan Saladin, That Turkish Soldan full of sin;He has a hundred wives at least, By which his pleasure is increased:
I've often wished, I hope no sin, That I were Sultan Saladin.
"But no, the Pope no wife may choose, And so I would not wear his shoes;No wine may drink the proud Paynim, And so I'd rather not be him:
My wife, my wine, I love I hope, And would be neither Turk nor Pope.""Encore! Encore! Bravo! Bis!" Everybody applauded the King's song with all his might: everybody except Ivanhoe, who preserved his abominable gravity: and when asked aloud by Roger de Backbite whether he had heard that too, said firmly, "Yes, Roger de Backbite; and so hast thou if thou darest but tell the truth.""Now, by St. Cicely, may I never touch gittern again," bawled the King in a fury, "if every note, word, and thought be not mine; may I die in to-morrow's onslaught if the song be not my song. Sing thyself, Wilfrid of the Lanthorn Jaws; thou could'st sing a good song in old times." And with all his might, and with a forced laugh, the King, who loved brutal practical jests, flung his guitar at the head of Ivanhoe.
Sir Wilfrid caught it gracefully with one hand, and making an elegant bow to the sovereign, began to chant as follows:--"KING CANUTE.
"King Canute was weary-hearted; he had reigned for years a score, Battling, struggling, pushing, fighting, killing much and robbing more;And he thought upon his actions, walking by the wild sea-shore.
"'Twixt the Chancellor and Bishop walked the King with steps sedate, Chamberlains and grooms came after, silversticks and goldsticks great, Chaplains, aides-de-camp, and pages,--all the officers of state.
"Sliding after like his shadow, pausing when he chose to pause, If a frown his face contracted, straight the courtiers dropped their jaws;If to laugh the King was minded, out they burst in loud hee-haws.
"But that day a something vexed him, that was clear to old and young:
Thrice his Grace had yawned at table, when his favorite gleemen sung, Once the Queen would have consoled him, but he bade her hold her tongue.
"'Something ails my gracious master,' cried the Keeper of the Seal.
'Sure, my lord, it is the lampreys served at dinner, or the veal?'
'Psha!' exclaimed the angry monarch. 'Keeper, 'tis not that I feel.
"''Tis the HEART, and not the dinner, fool, that doth my rest impair:
Can a King be great as I am, prithee, and yet know no care?
Oh, I'm sick, and tired, and weary.'--Some one cried, 'The King's arm-chair?'
"Then towards the lackeys turning, quick my Lord the Keeper nodded, Straight the King's great chair was brought him, by two footmen able-bodied;Languidly he sank into it: it was comfortably wadded.
"'Leading on my fierce companions,' cried be, 'over storm and brine, I have fought and I have conquered! Where was glory like to mine?'
Loudly all the courtiers echoed: 'Where is glory like to thine?'
"'What avail me all my kingdoms? Weary am I now, and old;Those fair sons I have begotten, long to see me dead and cold;Would I were, and quiet buried, underneath the silent mould!
"'Oh, remorse, the writhing serpent! at my bosom tears and bites;Horrid, horrid things I look on, though I put out all the lights;Ghosts of ghastly recollections troop about my bed of nights.
"'Cities burning, convents blazing, red with sacrilegious fires;Mothers weeping, virgins screaming, vainly for their slaughtered sires.'--Such a tender conscience,' cries the Bishop, 'every one admires.
"'But for such unpleasant bygones, cease, my gracious lord, to search, They're forgotten and forgiven by our Holy Mother Church;Never, never does she leave her benefactors in the lurch.
"'Look! the land is crowned with minsters, which your Grace's bounty raised;Abbeys filled with holy men, where you and Heaven are daily praised:
YOU, my lord, to think of dying? on my conscience I'm amazed!'
"'Nay, I feel,' replied King Canute, 'that my end is drawing near.'
'Don't say so,' exclaimed the courtiers (striving each to squeeze a tear).
'Sure your Grace is strong and lusty, and may live this fifty year.'
"'Live these fifty years!' the Bishop roared, with actions made to suit.
'Are you mad, my good Lord Keeper, thus to speak of King Canute!
Men have lived a thousand years, and sure his Majesty will do't.
"'Adam, Enoch, Lamech, Cainan, Mahaleel, Methusela, Lived nine hundred years apiece, and mayn't the King as well as they?'
'Fervently,' exclaimed the Keeper, 'fervently I trust he may.'
"'HE to die?' resumed the Bishop. 'He a mortal like to US?
Death was not for him intended, though communis omnibus:
Keeper, you are irreligious, for to talk and cavil thus.
"'With his wondrous skill in healing ne'er a doctor can compete, Loathsome lepers, if he touch them, start up clean upon their feet;Surely he could raise the dead up, did his Highness think it meet.
"'Did not once the Jewish captain stay the sun upon the hill, And, the while he slew the foemen, bid the silver moon stand still?
So, no doubt, could gracious Canute, if it were his sacred will.'
"'Might I stay the sun above us, good Sir Bishop?' Canute cried;'Could I bid the silver moon to pause upon her heavenly ride?
If the moon obeys my orders, sure I can command the tide.
"'Will the advancing waves obey me, Bishop, if I make the sign?'
Said the Bishop, bowing lowly, 'Land and sea, my lord, are thine.'
