Classic Poem

They have ridden out a-hunting,
The huntsmen of the king;
They have sought for game the whole day long,
Nor taken anything;
They have lost the royal falcons
And fear to face the king.

They ride along the highroad
Till a castle comes in sight
Where lives a noble maiden,
So beautiful and bright,
That three kings are her wooers,
Three kings, and many a knight.

Now Rico Franco steals her,
Rico Franco of Aragon;
Though the tears of the sweet maiden
From her pretty lashes run;
He taunts her, Rico Franco,
Rico Franco of Aragon.

" What use to mourn thy parents,
Whom thou shalt never see?
What use to mourn thy brothers?
I have slain them, all the three! "

" I weep not for my parents,
Nor for my brothers three;
I weep for mine own fortune.
Who knows what it will be?

" Now lend me, Rico Franco,
Your knife so bright and bare,
For the fringes of my mantle
They are not fit to wear. "

The courtly Rico Franco
Held out to her the hilt;
But the maiden she was crafty
And swift his blood was spilt.

In his breast the knife she buried
That she revenged might be
For her father and her mother,
And her brothers, all the three.