Life, 1916-01-27 · page 14 of 44
Life — January 27, 1916 — page 14: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This is a mock-medieval ballad in deliberately archaic and fractured English, presented as humorous light verse. The page features an ornate decorative border and a woodcut-style illustration of an armored knight on horseback. The narrative appears to be satirical mockery of knightly behavior and masculine bluster. Sir Tantrumme—whose name itself suggests temperamental outbursts ("tantrums")—is portrayed as incompetent and vain: he gets lost traveling, encounters a grotesque cavern-dwelling creature, loses his horse, and generally fails at heroic quests. The exaggerated medieval dialect and over-the-top adventures parody chivalric romance conventions. This is essentially comedic satire of knightly pretension, likely appealing to Life magazine's educated audience familiar with medieval literature tropes.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
Who goeth forthe to warre. With steele he ys yclad yhind, With dittoe clad yfore— Ta-ra! He thyrsteth after gore. II Wytnin a cavern danke and chille There dwelles a gyaunt grymme: He hairy ys from toppe to toc: Hys manneres are not comme il faut— Yn facte, he ys a bit de trop— Ye Pryncesse talle and slimme— Ub-glub! Ys soupe to nuttes for hym. 086 Sir TANTRUMME to ye crossroads comes Atte nyne o’clocke atte nyghte. One way yt leadeth to ye lefte, Ye other to ye ryghte— Ho-humme! 'Tys muche too late to fyghte IV Atte mentioun of ye gyaunt’s name Ye genial hooste turns pale—- Sir TantRUMME says that on ye morne He'll make ye gyaunt quaile. What-hoe! Another stoupe of ale. a ‘Veracious = allad Ye knyghte ys here asleepe, wyth his Alarme-clocke sette for syx. He dreams of slayinge dragouns nowe, And savynge people who, somehowe, Are yn an awfulle fyx— Z-Z-Z-Z! Mulled wyne and ale don’t myx. VI Sir TANTRUMME to ye caverne comes, And he ys sore perplexed. Ye gyaunt’s footprint he espies: Sainte Bubo! ‘Tys a goodlie syze! And as he stares wyth doubtynge eyes, Ye gyaunt from ye cavern flies As if he wolde hym pulverize, Appearynge sorely vexed. Woof-woof ! (Continued yn oure nexte.) VII Sir TANTRUMME ys a discreete knyghte As any that there be: He leaves hys horse, and wyth alle haste He gettes behynde a tree— Tee-hee! How madde ye gyaunt be! VIII Ye gyaunt sytteth downe to make Hys noontyde meale of steede. Ye craven knyghte! Soe to desert Hys charger yn hys neede— Sh-sh! Bee notte soe faste! Take heede! comicbooks.com