Troubadour
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lowing with love, on fire for fameA Troubadour that hated sorrowBeneath 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 fightBefits the gallant Troubadour." And while he marched with helm on headAnd 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 fightI 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 fieldHe 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 fightBecomes the valiant Troubadour."
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