Oriental Scenes, Dramatic Sketches and Tales/Ballad—The old ancestral tower is reft
BALLAD.
The old ancestral tower is reft
Of tapestry and of pall—
There's not a tattered banner left
Upon the broken wall.
The owl hoots where the minstrel's lay
Cheered my bold ancestors—
And I must up and ride away,
And win my golden spurs.
There's rust upon my good sword blade,
My war-steed rests at ease,
And still I haunt this darksome glade,
Nor cross yon glittering seas.
'Tis idle grief to shed the tear,
Though he was good and brave,—
'Tis idle grief to linger near
My father's blood-stained grave.
Then I my coat of mail will don,
And couch my trusty lance;
There's many a castle to be won
In fair and jocund France.
My halls are empty—but I'll come,
St. George my weapon guide!
With laurel-crested basnet home
And the red gold beside.
The blue eyed maids of England scorn
My ruined house and me,
But there are brides as highly born
In stately Normandy;
And he who in the battle field
Shall prove the stoutest knight,
Will find the eye of beauty yield
Its smile of sunniest light,
And I'll be first in bower and hall,
And foremost in the ring;
And bards at each gay festival
My knightly feats shall sing.
I'll bear about the blazonry
Of arms, in gold and pearl,
And every precious gem shall be
The ransom of an earl.
I'll heap my board with costly plate
With this good sword of mine;
And crowds of vassals at my gate
Shall drain the purple wine.
Each knave shall with his fellow vie
In silks, and gauds, and furs;
These towers shall ring with mirth, when I
Have won my golden spurs.