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bois ton sang, beaumanoir.
Profane not the place by so base a libation! Look around ye—look upward! and drink if ye dare! Away with the wine-cup, the curse of creation! Yon fount has enough for us all, and to spare.
"BOIS TON SANG, BEAUMANOIR!"[1]
Fierce raged the combat—the foemen press'd nigh,When from young Beaumanoir rose the wild cry, Beaumanoir, 'mid them all, bravest and first, "Give me to drink, for I perish of thirst!"Hark! at his side, in the deep tones o ire, "Bois ton sang, Beaumanoir!" shouted his sire!
Deep had it pierced him—the foemen's swift sword—Deeper his soul felt the wound of that word!
- ↑ The incident is related in Froissart's Chronicles.
