THE DRUMMER'S BETROTHED.
"Douce est la morte qui vient en bien aimant."
Our 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!