The Poetical Works of William Motherwell/The Troubadour's Lament
The Troubadour's Lament.
It was a gallant troubadour,
A child of sword and song,
That loved a gentle paramour,
And loved her leal and long;
He woo'd her as a knight should woo,
And laying lance in rest,
In listed fields, her colours flew
O'er many a haughty crest.
He loved her as a bard should do,
And taking harp in hand,
In sweetest lays, that lady's praise
He poured o'er many a land:
But all in vain,
His noblest strain
Awoke no kind return;
That lady proud
Smiled on the crowd,
But his true love did spurn.
It was a tristful troubadour,
Heart-broken by disdain,
That then to France and belle amour
Bequeathed this mournful strain,
As riding on the yellow sand
With many a knightly feere,
He smote his harp with feeblest hand,
To sing with feebler cheer:
Adieu, proud love! adieu, fair land!
Where heathen banners float,
This broken heart can act its part,
Can die, and be forgot.
Alas! too late;
It was its fate
To learn, with saddest pain,
It loved one
Who scorned to own
Her heart could love again.
Fair France, farewell! my latest breath
Shall still be spent for thee,
While meeting strife, I court my death
In distant Galilee.
My soul is bound up with the glaive
That glitters at my thigh,
And fixed upon the banner brave
Now flashing to the sky.
A last adieu I well may waive
To her I loved so well;
She does not care what doom I bear,
Yet, heartless maid, farewell!
No bridal sheet
For me is meet,
I seek the soldier's bier,
Who, for his God,
Sleeps on the sod,
Unstained by woman's tear.