The Troubadour

Glowing with love, on fire for fame

A Troubadour that hated sorrow

Beneath his lady's window came,

And thus he sung his last good-morrow:

"My arm it is my country's right,

My heart is in my true-love's bower;

Gaily for love and fame to fight

Befits the gallant Troubadour."

And while he marched with helm on head

And harp in hand, the descant rung,

As faithful to his favourite maid,

The minstrel-burden still he sung:

"My arm it is my country's right,

My heart is in my lady's bower;

Resolved for love and fame to fight

I come, a gallant Troubadour."

Even when the battle-roar was deep,

With dauntless heart he hewed his way,

'Mid splintering lance and falchion-sweep,

And still was heard his warrior-lay:

"My life it is my country's right,

My heart is in my lady's bower;

For love to die, for fame to fight,

Becomes the valiant Troubadour."

Alas! upon the bloody field

He fell beneath the foeman's glaive,

But still reclining on his shield,

Expiring sung the exulting stave:-

"My life it is my country's right,

My heart is in my lady's bower;

For love and fame to fall in fight

Becomes the valiant Troubadour."