My GILLIAN, thou child that budding woman art For whom to-day and yesterday lie far apart Already thou, my dear, dost longer dresses wear And bobbest in most strange, new-fangled ways thy hair; Thou lookest on the world with eyes grown serious And rul'st thy father with a sway imperious Particularly as regards his socks and ties Insistent that each with the other harmonise. Instead of simple fairy-tales that pleased of yore Romantic verse thou read'st and novels by the score And very oft I've known thee sigh and call them “stuff”    Vowing of love romantic they've not half enough. Wherefore, like fond and doting parent, I Will strive this want romantic to supply. I'll write for thee a book of sighing lover Crammed with ROMANCE from cover unto cover; A book the like of which 't were hard to find Filled with ROMANCE of every sort and kind. I'll write it as the Gestours wrote of old, In prose, blank-verse, and rhyme it shall be told. And GILLIAN—   Some day perhaps, my dear, when you are grown A portly dame with children of your own You'll gather all your troop about your knee And read to them this Geste I made for thee. 

  

  

       ILLUSTRATIONS   “Nobles of Brocelaunde, salute your Duchess Yolande”      

       They saw afar the town of Canalise     

       “Brave soldier, I do thank thee well!” she sighed     

       “Hush, poor Motley!” whispered the maid.     

       With mighty bound, bold Robin leaping came     

       The long blades whirled and flashed     

  

  

       PRELUDE     

   Long, long ago when castles grim did frown, When massy wall and gate did 'fend each town; When mighty lords in armour bright were seen, And stealthy outlaws lurked amid the green And oft were hanged for poaching of the deer, Or, gasping, died upon a hunting spear; When barons bold did on their rights insist And hanged or burned all rogues who dared resist; When humble folk on life had no freehold And were in 

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