The Dead Mother
Lord Roland on his roan horse
Is riding far and fast,
Though white the eddying snow is driven
Along the northern blast.
There's snow upon the holly-bush,
There's snow upon the pine;
There's many a bough beneath the snow
He had not thought so fine—
For the last time Roland crossed the moor
He rode to Palestine.
Now pale across the windy hills
A castle 'gins to rise.
With unsubstantial turrets thin
Against the windy skies.
"Welcome, O welcome. Towers of Sands,
I welcome you again!
Yet often in my Syrian tent,
I saw you far more plain."
Lord Roland spurs his roan horse
Through all the snow and wind—
And soon he's reached those towers so wan.
And left the moor behind.
"Welcome, Sir John the Steward!
How oft in Eastern lands
I've called to mind your English face,
And sighed to think of Sands.
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