Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, KET THE TANNER, by NEWMAN HOWARD


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

KET THE TANNER, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Ho! Ket the tanner hath saddled his mare!
Last Line: For rich men make merry, while poor men weep.]
Subject(s): Jesus Christ; Life; Sin; Widows & Widowers


I

Ho! Ket the tanner hath saddled his mare!
Ye fat-fed gentlefolk, have ye a care!
By barn and borough, by field and fen,
Bob Ket the tanner goes gathering men.

The sea-brine beats on the wry-blown toft;
Now empty the hithe is, and barren the croft.
Ho! grind your axes and out with your staves!
Though poor are we, squires, we be not your slaves!

Bob Ket the tanner hath ridden his mare,
And roused up the yeomen from Irwell to Yare!
I warrant thee, fellow, the fingers shall burn
That grabbed my meadows, and emptied thy churn!

The gentles ha' robbed us of commons and kine;
They tether our cattle, our pastures they tine!
Come, learn them a lesson, they squires and they lords!
For ours are the ploughshares, if theirs be the swords.

Aye strait were our acres, aye woeful our lot;
They lordlings ha' gathered the little we got.
Aye dainty their dames be, aflaunt in their silk;
Our wives go a-weeping, -- their babes ha' no milk!

Our wives go a-weeping, -- their children lie dead;
They lordings ha' stolen their milk and their bread!
God's curse on the caitiffs! To hell wi' the knaves!
We're franklins and freemen, not villains and slaves.

Rip out wi' thy reaper, lad! Reap thee a squire!
Fat beef and fine capons, lad, -- they be thy hire!
Cry, Ket and the Commonwealth! Loud let it ring!
Bob Ket is our captain, lads! Ned is our king!

II

Ho! Ket the tanner hath gathered a host:
They fare from the fenlands, they flock from the coast;
They march in their hundreds; they camp on the heath.
The city lies red in the hollow beneath.

Bob Ket is our captain, lads; he shall command.
He holdeth the town in the palm of his hand.
The burghers are whining; ay, let them go whine!
Cry, Down with the lordings! The people shall dine!

Now drag forth the captive; stand out with 'ee, squire!
Come bow to thy betters, or duck in the mire.
Now shake him like dice, Will; or devils shake thee!
Bob Ket shall be baron, and better than he.

Go hang us the vermin! The widow was poor:
Squire drave her from home, with her face to the moor.
Go hang us the vermin! The widow went daft;
She caught up her bairns, and she cried and she laughed.

"Though vermin he be, no killing!" quoth Ket:
"Man's life is God's loan; would ye take up the debt,
And toss it, besmirched, at the Lender, like mud? --
Leave that to the brutes, and the braggarts of blood!"

'Tis e'en as ye list, Bob; a curse for the hound!
A flog and a kick, and then let him lie bound!
"Ay, flog him," quoth Ket, "but your oaths are in vain;
The poor were the rich if their curses were grain."

Then he rose, and he cried: "No cursing! but deeds!
Go, wrench from the robbers their ill-gotten meads;
No gate and no paling shall lock up the land,
Save for keeping of cattle. Ye have my command!

"The barque to the sailor, the flock to the swain,
The field to the tiller, to each man his gain;
Away through the county, and do as I bid:
The land of the loons and the lordings we rid."

Lads, tear up the fences! Lads, set them afire!
Let beeves be a-roasting, all over the shire!
Lads, drink to the captain in gentlefolk's ale!
Hurrah for the land, and the people's entail!

III

Who cometh a-riding with pennon and helm?
These armies are blister and bane of the realm.
-- Come, carve up the capon and swallow thy beer!
By'rlakin, my hearties, ye've som'at to hear!

King Ned sends a token. Hurrah for the King!
-- Quoth Ket, "My lord herald, what word do ye bring?"
Now brayeth the bugle. "Ye rebels, take heed,
And repair to your homes with uttermost speed;

"Whereof, an ye fail, in forfeit ye pay
Your lives and your chattels; but, if ye obey,
Your King in his clemency pardons ye all;
Now hearken, ye rebels, or worse shall befall."

"A fig for the pardon!" Ket thundered, and swore:
"They wights who ha' wronged us may go on that score;
Leal folk are we all, and this answer we send:
'Where the Many foregather, the Mighty shall bend.'"

Hurrah for the Commonwealth! Fling down the gage,
Though war to the death for our freedom we wage.
-- Like a sword from a scabbard, the sun in the west
Flashed out, as the heralds rode townward abreast.

IV

Now what be they doing within the town?
The gates they have barred and the bolts let down;
There's a clatter of steel, and a clangour of brass;
And from turret to turret the bowmen pass.

Come shoulder your axes, and tighten your bows!
If they be for barking, lads, we be for blows!
Take pikes for the foemen, and picks for the wall;
The first at a fight are the last at a fall.

A shot from the ramparts! Lads, wheel ye about:
Now cover the miners; now drown with your shout
The sound of the picks as they hammer and hew.
Aim steady, my mates, for our shafts are but few!

What's up with 'ee, Joe? Art thou taking a rest?
-- An arrow and kerchief he wrenched from his breast;
He showed them, and moaned as he looked at my bow,
"The wimple for Nancy, -- the shaft for the foe!"

His wounds are agape, and they cry to the brave,
"Lads, fight for your freedom: your children ye save!"
A stouter-bred carle never stept in the shire.
To hell wi' the devils who slew him for hire!

Our ranks are an ocean, their arrows a hail!
We besiege them like breakers a hull in a gale!
Our bodies are hurled at their bulwarks like scud!
The troughs of the ramparts run red with our blood!

V

The city is taken, lads: cheer, lads, cheer!
Let victory foam in the froth of your beer!
Drink deep to the captain, lads, waving your swords!
Cry, Down with the hirelings who fought for the lords!

Well met, master tailor: come thread us thy twine:
Our jerkins are yawning, and spattered like swine.
Come, clout them with broadcloth, a groat for an ell,
Or clout we thy pate, and thou hoppest to hell.

From steps of the hostel, "My mates," shouted Ket,
"Ye dared to remember, now dare to forget;
Lads, kill not the loons who lie low at your feet;
For life, even life to a lazar, is sweet.

"Offend not a wight in the land, nor a lass;
Show mercy in conquest and let the word pass:
The hind hath a heart, and the rich man a maw."
-- Hurrah to thee, Ket! thou givest our law!

Now march we in file through the streets of the town,
And many's the maid, in white kirtle and gown,
Will lift thee white fingers, all love to the tips,
And wing thee white kisses blown warm from her lips.

But the dead! Ah, the dead that lie blanched by the wall!
Ah, why did ye leave us, lads? Why must ye fall,
And quaff not the goblet of gladness ye brewed
With your anguish and valour, your tears and your blood?

Ah, the dead! Ah, the dead! They are fallen like leaves
Whipt off by the whirlwind, ne'er garnered in sheaves:
The morrow dawns laughing, bedewed from the storm;
Their bough-fellows bask, for the day is full warm:

But ye lie a-cold, lads, and trampled to clay,
And the wheels of the years will go soft where ye lay:
Dear Memories are ye, our farefellows dead;
And Hopes are the flowers that have blossomed instead.

Come pledge we the brave in a tankard of beer.
The city is taken, lads! Cheer, lads! Cheer!
Alone we may fall, but together we stand!
And the might of the poor is the weal of the land!

* * * * * * *

[The hind hath a heart and the rich man a maw;
But strife falleth still to the firmest of claw;
And blood is a red bright seal on the deed,
For acres to pass from the plundered who bleed.

"The Lanzknechts are coming," the plunderers cry,
And shake in their shoes till the succour is nigh,
Then kneel to Earl Warwick, and call to his braves, --
"Come rid us, we pray, of these riotous knaves;

"Their weapons are scant, and your matchlocks shall mow
Our varlets like wheat in the fields that they sow." --
Now blush, O ye Britons, who held it no sin
To purchase the Germans to slaughter your kin!

Ket rallied his men and they fronted the foe,
And battled with culverin, billhook, and bow:
But valour ill-weaponed is flame without heat,
And ruin rides hard on the heels of defeat.

The cry is: "No quarter, but slay without care!
The hind is a creature to hunt like the hare;
The boor is a beast that ye bait like the boar,
No quarter we swear!" -- and they slew as they swore.

The mavis is mute, amid moanings of pain;
The trefoil is drenched in the blood of the slain;
Ten thousand blind eyeballs gaze blank at the blue;
And still they are killing, and still they pursue;

Nor pause in the chase till they cry in dismay,
"The mouth eats the hand! There are few more to slay!
These laboured for us: if we slaughter our beast
We must bear our own burdens." And therefore they ceased.

Now women and children, in fair Dussindale
Search weeping their mates and their fathers bewail;
Now silence is heavy o'er hovel and hut:
A sobbing is heard, and the doors are all shut.

And Christ at his shrine in the poor man's fane
Hears the good Ket groan in a rust-red chain,
And a dolorous harvest the long years reap,
For rich men make merry, while poor men weep.]





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