LITMIR.BIZ

           My lord the Duke of Brittany

               Has summoned his barons bold —

           Their names make a fearful litany!

           Among them you will not meet any

               But men of giant mould.

           Proud earls, who dwell in donjon keep,

               And steel-clad knight and peer,

           Whose forts are girt with a moat cut deep —

           But none excel in soldiership

               My own loved cymbaleer.

           Clashing his cymbals, forth he went,

               With a bold and gallant bearing;

           Sure for a captain he was meant,

           To judge his pride with courage blent,

               And the cloth of gold he's wearing.

           But in my soul since then I feel

               A fear in secret creeping;

           And to my patron saint I kneel,

           That she may recommend his weal

               To his guardian-angel's keeping.

           I've begged our abbot Bernardine

               His prayers not to relax;

           And to procure him aid divine

           I've burnt upon Saint Gilda's shrine

               Three pounds of virgin wax.

           Our Lady of Loretto knows

               The pilgrimage I've vowed:

           "To wear the scallop I propose,

           If health and safety from the foes

               My lover be allowed."

           No letter (fond affection's gage!)

               From him could I require,

           The pain of absence to assuage —

           A vassal-maid can have no page,

               A liegeman has no squire.

           This day will witness, with the duke's,

               My cymbaleer's return:

           Gladness and pride beam in my looks,

           Delay my heart impatient brooks,

               All meaner thoughts I spurn.

           Back from the battlefield elate

               His banner brings each peer;

           Come, let us see, at the ancient gate,

           The martial triumph pass in state —

               With the princes my cymbaleer.

           We'll have from the rampart walls a glance

               Of the air his steed assumes;

           His proud neck swells, his glad hoofs prance,

           And on his head unceasing dance,

               In a gorgeous tuft, red plumes!

           Be quick, my sisters! dress in haste!

               Come, see him bear the bell,

           With laurels decked, with true love graced,

           While in his bold hands, fitly placed,

               The bounding cymbals swell!

           Mark well the mantle that he'll wear,

               Embroidered by his bride!

           Admire his burnished helmet's glare,

           O'ershadowed by the dark horsehair

               That waves in jet folds wide!

           The gypsy (spiteful wench!) foretold,

               With a voice like a viper hissing.

      (Though I had crossed her palm with gold),

           That from the ranks a spirit bold

               Would be to-day found missing.

           But I have prayed so much, I trust

               Her words may prove untrue;

           Though in a tomb the hag accurst

           Muttered: "Prepare thee for the worst!"

               Whilst the lamp burnt ghastly blue.

           My joy her spells shall not prevent.

               Hark! I can hear the drums!

           And ladies fair from silken tent

           Peep forth, and every eye is bent

               On the cavalcade that comes!

           Pikemen, dividing on both flanks,

               Open the pageantry;

           Loud, as they tread, their armor clanks,

           And silk-robed barons lead the ranks —

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