Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/293



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,