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"Douce est la morte qui vient en bien aimant." liege lord, the Duc de Bretagne,
 * To deadly battle for the king

Summons sent from Nantes to Mortagne, In the plain and on the mountain,
 * To warriors of his following.

Barons they are, whose gleaming arms
 * Adorn the moated castle's crest,

Proud knights, grown old midst war's alarms Esquires, and footmen with their arms;
 * And my betrothed went with the rest.

He went to Aquitaine, and though
 * Among the drummers he's enrolled,

He seemed a captain, marching slow, With haughty head, and eyes aglow,
 * And doublet glittering with gold.

Since then nor peace nor rest I know.
 * Joining his lot with mine, I've cried

To my St. Brigitte, bending low, Watch well his guardian angel, so
 * That he shall never leave his side!