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The Lay of Chevrefoil (or Woodbine): Tristan and the Queen

Of ‘Chevrefoil’ the lay I’d tell,

For indeed it pleases me well,

And all the truth relay to you

Of why twas made; twas sung too.

Many a one has told it me,

And in books too one may see

The tale of Tristan and the queen,

Of their love so true, I mean,

Which many a sorrow did provide,

And how that, on a day, they died.

Now King Mark was angered by

His nephew Tristan and by and by

Sent him from his realm, for he

Loved the queen; to his own country

He made his way and, one fine morn

Reached South Wales where he was born.

There he lived for one whole year,

Could no longer venture near;

Then upon his own instruction

Chose to face death and destruction.

By that none should be surprised,

Those who true love have realised,

Must suffer great grief and anguish,

When they cannot have their wish.

Tristan, aggrieved, in his agony,

Tore himself from his own country,

Deep into Cornwall he did stray,

There where the queen lived alway.

Concealed there in the forest, alone,

Not wishing to be seen or known,

He would but issue forth at evening,

When men return to their dwelling;

With peasants, or some poor knight,

He’d find his lodging for the night;

While from them forever seeking

All they might tell him of the king.

The Lay of Chevrefoil (or Woodbine): The road to Tintagel

THUS did he learn what they had heard;

That summoned by the king’s own word,

Tintagel now the barons sought,

Where King Mark must hold his court;

At Pentecost, all would there alight,

And take their pleasure and delight;

Queen Iseult too would play her part.

Tristan heard, joy filled his heart;

For whichever way she chose to go,

The road she journeyed he would know.

The day on which the king did ride,

Tristan sought out a grove beside

The road where they all, en masse,

In all their glory, must surely pass.

Once there, a hazel he cut in two,

And then he trimmed it squarely too,

And when he’d prepared this same,

There with his knife he cut his name.

If the queen but saw his hazel stick,

She’d take great notice of this trick,

Which she had seen him use before,

And know he was there, what’s more.

For her lover waits among the trees,

Whene’er the hazel stick she sees.

The Lay of Chevrefoil (or Woodbine): The meaning

HERE’S the sum of what it meant,

For he had told her of its intent:

That he has long lingered there,

Long waited and sojourned there,

Watching, seeking for some way

To gaze upon her, as on this day,

Since he cannot live without her;

For the pair of them tis no other

Wise than tis with the woodbine,

That honeysuckle that doth twine

About the hazel, that when set fast,

Laced all about the hazel, will last,

Such that both survive together.

Yet should any the pair dissever,

The hazel tree will fade away

With the woodbine, all in a day.

‘And so it is, love, with us two,

No you sans me, no me sans you!’

The Lay of Chevrefoil (or Woodbine): The lovers meet

THE Queen she came riding by,

Toward the trees she cast an eye,

Saw the hazel staff, all he wrote,

Knew the writing, and took note.

All the knights that did escort her,

She called out to, gave the order

That all might halt, twould be best,

And dismount, for she would rest.

They carried out her whole command,

While she strayed as she’d planned;

Then to her she summons her maid,

Brangwyn, who is her faithful aide.

She leaves the path a little, and sees

Her Tristan there, among the trees,

Who loves her more than any alive;

True joy it is they there contrive.

He can speak to her, at leisure,

She can tell him all her pleasure.

Then she tells him in what manner

He might his own place recover

With the king, for it weighs on him

That he has banished him at whim,

Based on mere claims about the pair.

And now she goes, leaves him there.

But when it comes time to depart

They weep sorely, grieved at heart.

Tristan returns to Wales once more,

Till his uncle doth his place restore.

The Lay of Chevrefoil (or Woodbine): The making of the lay

BECAUSE of all the joy he found,

In seeing her, on hallowed ground,

Because of what he once did write,

And because she’d asked outright,

So the words she might remember,

Since of the harp he was master,

Tristan now made for her a lay,

Brief enough is its name to say,

‘Goat-leaf’ in English, or ‘Woodbine’,

Or ‘Chevrefoil’, in French, is fine.

Now I’ve said all, and all is true,

Of this whole lay I retold for you.

The End of the Lay of Chevrefoil