December 2

Thank you to author Natasha Gennady Robinson for sharing this beautiful ballad with us here today as our second Advent Calendar treat.

To Love and Lose – A ballad for Anne Boleyn
To set the scene, it was the morn,
And played at bowls upon the lawn.
Two men, both lithe, both ripe of age,
There batoned wills upon the stage.
The one was Wyatt, a man of word.
The one was King, and dealt the ferd.

Of genial sport and company,
To bet with pride, or cur the fee.
To shirk the bet was not the aim,
The court would have a different game.
As those whom lined the knotted rows,
Would throw their pittance to the crows,
And rather than to irk their Lord,
Did speculate their bed and board.

Madcaps gave that King much pleasure,
Thus he made their ruin his leisure.

Said Wyatt, ‘King of much delight,’
‘Cannot remove thee of thy sight?’
‘For lo, I saw that lady first,’
‘And God knoweth myne plight the worst!’
‘Cannot some charity prevail?’
‘Or need I traverse the beaten trail!’

So laughed the King of lackless means,
‘I pity you not, for your pretty scenes,’
‘Are stuff of legends across the land,’
‘Thus proper romance is at hand!’

‘But not,’ said Wyatt stiff of lip,
‘That which equals of thy worship.’
‘I cannot think it fair, nor right,’
‘Thou might have any in thy sight!’

‘Aye, but Kingship, so pleaseth God,’
Quothe the King with hearty nod,
‘Be matter of purpose above all men,’
‘And thus the precedent be given.’

Then Wyatt spat upon the floor,
And counted fingers keeping score.
‘I shal say it once, and once alone,’
‘I be the dog whom heeds the bone!’
‘Thus let us make our wager even,’
‘Or let my soul go to Saint Stephen!’
‘Let us make this lady’s hand our wager,’
‘Then speak no more of uncommon favour.’

‘Aye,’ said the King, and knew full well,
His royal hand would win the belle.
And then said he with undue mirth,
‘And the loser shal inherit the Earth,’
‘For he whom wins not the Lady’s hand,’
‘Must endeavour upon some distant land.’
And so shook hands between the two,
Upon stakes far higher than either knew.

And even as he cast his bowl,
The King knew well whence it would roll.
‘She has fine hands, or does she not?’
Spoke the King as he hit the spot.
‘And playeth well the clavichord.’
Whilst whispering thanks to the Lord.

‘Aye,’ Said Wyatt to this gloat,
‘But surely she is a better poet.’
‘Have not you read her finest verse?’
‘Or be it that she is averse?’
‘God knoweth her talents are a many,’
‘And not the least be worth a penny.’
Wyatt here bowled, and stood a proud.
Ovation, clapped hands of the crowd.

The King took hand of second bowl,
And proceeded thence again to roll.
‘I think her clever, and sure she is blythe,’
‘But not a dame to take to wife.’

To Wyatt, the quip struck as a barb,
An arrow poisoned, and matched his garb,
For crimson wore the Master Wyatt,
And crimson turned his face with fright!

How might the King presume to dare?
And speak the unspoken with such an air?
True by law, Wyatt was married still,
The world knew his wife had treated him ill!

‘I think it quick, you do presume,’
‘To speak so light of wedded doom,’
The crowd fell quiet, and white, the King!
What a hardy fool with song to sing!
How could such a thing be truly said?
And not the speaker be struck dead!

“Very well,” and Wyatt did admit.
“’Tis not as it happened, nor could it.”
“For I said not a thing, nor still could,”
“Nor for the life of me, could make good.”

“And so?” spoke captive patrons still.
“What did happen then, do tell!”
“For Master Wyatt thyne tale be long,”
“Yet none here would break thy song!”

“And so I did bowl, and did bode well,”
“Against the King, now play thy Vielle!”
“The King he won well his game, and truth.”
“I could not place my face aloof!”
“I could not lose with God’s good grace.”
“And hatred played upon my face.”
“I could not sing my song in time.”
“Nor would beg that which was mine.”

“I spoke my Lord the King’s name in vain.”
“And there I alit a life in twain.”
“Passed Paris, and on to Mantua.”
“And God knoweth I be here no better.”

And now with retrospective power,
Sir Thomas Wyatt marked the hour.
That day which he had waged and lost,
The lady whom he would give all cost.

Then spoke Wyatt on captive ears,
“Such loss has haunted all my years,”
“As you do see me, I be now void,”
“And with my chance went all my joy.”
“For the arms of the damsel, to Ceasar went.”
“And as to me, to Rome here sent!”
“For alas! I played the King a gin,”
“And lost the love of Anne Boleyn.”

And then feat Wyatt, with strained smile,
“I think I would tarry here a while,”
“I cannot find no better remedy,”
“Nor would think me ever worthy.”

“With bitter heart, I count my stars.”
“’Tis better to love her from afar!”
“And ‘tis better to have loved and lost,”
“Than to forfeit my head as the cost.”
“And so do not pity my love long dead,”
“For it were that loss which kept my head.”
“In the end, to love and lose is better,”
“Than to give my life as her vendetta.”

Natasha Gennady Robinson began her journey as an historical writer after reading Sir Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe, which led to an insatiable curiosity for British History, which in turn led her to stumble nearly a decade ago upon a fledgling Tudor History website known as ‘The Anne Boleyn Files’. She has never looked back!

Natasha has purposefully developed an unusual style of writing which she calls ‘Historical Quasi-Fiction’ the essence of which combines a driven passion for in depth research presented in the form of lyrical prose and early modern poetry. Natasha has since penned over one hundred short stories about the Tudor Era and means to publish a collection of these called ‘The Raven and the Writing Desk: Tales of the Tower of London’ in 2020.