THE
LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL.
CANTO THIRD.
I.
And said I that my limbs were old;
And said I that my blood was cold,
And that my kindly fire was fled,
And my poor withered heart was dead,
And that I might not sing of love?—
How could I, to the dearest theme,
That ever warmed a minstrel's dream,
So foul, so false, a recreant prove!
And said I that my limbs were old;
And said I that my blood was cold,
And that my kindly fire was fled,
And my poor withered heart was dead,
And that I might not sing of love?—
How could I, to the dearest theme,
That ever warmed a minstrel's dream,
So foul, so false, a recreant prove!
