The Troubadour / Sir Walter Scott

Glowing with love, on fire for fame

  A Troubadour that hated sorrow

Beneath his lady's window came,

  And thus he sung his last good-morrow:

"My arm it is my country's right,

  My heart is in my true-love's bower;

Gaily for love and fame to fight

  Befits the gallant Troubadour."

And while he marched with helm on head

  And harp in hand, the descant rung,

As faithful to his favourite maid,

  The minstrel-burden still he sung:

"My arm it is my country's right,

  My heart is in my lady's bower;

Resolved for love and fame to fight

  I come, a gallant Troubadour."

Even when the battle-roar was deep,

  With dauntless heart he hewed his way,

'Mid splintering lance and falchion-sweep,

  And still was heard his warrior-lay:

"My life it is my country's right,

  My heart is in my lady's bower;

For love to die, for fame to fight,

  Becomes the valiant Troubadour."

Alas! upon the bloody field

  He fell beneath the foeman's glaive,

But still reclining on his shield,

  Expiring sung the exulting stave:-

"My life it is my country's right,

  My heart is in my lady's bower;

For love and fame to fall in fight

  Becomes the valiant Troubadour."