Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/279
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THE TIMES OF KING LION-HEART.
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Five knights on the plain by that horde were laid low;
There rode but King Richard and Will de Préaux;
"Spare—spare me, for Richard of England am I,"
Quoth brave, loyal Will, and bid Richard to fly.
Rushed hundreds on Will, like the vast ocean's surge:
"I'll smite them," quoth Richard, "I will, by St. George."
His curtle-axe gleamed, and the host was o'erthrown;
Hurrah! hurrah! for Cœur-de-Lion!
There rode but King Richard and Will de Préaux;
"Spare—spare me, for Richard of England am I,"
Quoth brave, loyal Will, and bid Richard to fly.
Rushed hundreds on Will, like the vast ocean's surge:
"I'll smite them," quoth Richard, "I will, by St. George."
His curtle-axe gleamed, and the host was o'erthrown;
Hurrah! hurrah! for Cœur-de-Lion!
The Times of King Lion-Heart.
With the deeds of noble Englishmen
When Lion-Heart was king,
Though our chroniclers in prose and verse
Have made the world to ring,
I would have you know who listen,
That the half has not been told,
Of those good old times, those brave old times,
Those merry times of old.
When Lion-Heart was king,
Though our chroniclers in prose and verse
Have made the world to ring,
I would have you know who listen,
That the half has not been told,
Of those good old times, those brave old times,
Those merry times of old.
Merry England, like a mighty sea,
From end to end was stirred
When "God help the Holy Sepulchre"
From every tongue was heard;
And the tempest caught up Lion-Heart
As o'er the realm it rolled,
In the good old times, the brave old times,
The merry times of old.
From end to end was stirred
When "God help the Holy Sepulchre"
From every tongue was heard;
And the tempest caught up Lion-Heart
As o'er the realm it rolled,
In the good old times, the brave old times,
The merry times of old.
Then the English king leaves England,
And he hurries o'er the sea,
And his fighting-men go with him,
For Crusaders they would be.
Thrice a hundred thousand pilgrims
Does the Saracen behold,
In the good old times, the brave old times,
The merry times of old.
And he hurries o'er the sea,
And his fighting-men go with him,
For Crusaders they would be.
Thrice a hundred thousand pilgrims
Does the Saracen behold,
In the good old times, the brave old times,
The merry times of old.
They shall die upon a foreign shore—
Their labour scarce begun:
They shall leave their bones to whiten
In the scorching Syrian sun;
But 'tis all in holy Jesus' name,
And not for blood or gold,
In the good old times, the brave old times,
The merry times of old.
Their labour scarce begun:
They shall leave their bones to whiten
In the scorching Syrian sun;
But 'tis all in holy Jesus' name,
And not for blood or gold,
In the good old times, the brave old times,
The merry times of old.