Classic Poem

It is the son of my Lord Count,
He goes a-wooing far from here;
He goes to woo a Monferrine,
The daughter of a cavalier.

On Saturday they are betrothed,
On Sunday morn he goes to wed;
He has carried her for fifty miles,
And not a word between them said.

But he speaks to her at the last,
After she has waited long:
“Yonder look, fair Monferrine,
To that castle walled so strong.

“Two-and-fifty Monferrines
There already I have led;
Two-and-fifty Monferrines,
And I struck off every head.

“I will do the like to yours
When we 're there, I give my word.”
“Listen, listen, Signor Count,
Will you lend to me your sword?”

“What will you do with my sword,
When you have it, Monferrine?”
“To shade my horse from the hot sun,
I will cut a branch of green.”

When she has the sword in hand,
In his heart she plants it deep;
“Oh, lie there, my Signor Count;
In that low ditch you shall sleep!”


She has turned her bridle-rein;
She rides swiftly from the place,
Meets with no one till she meets
Her own brother, face to face.

“Tell me now, fair Monferrine,
Why you ride alone?” he said;
“Oh, I met with highwaymen,
My bridegroom they murderèd.”

“Tell me now, fair Monferrine,
Was it you who slew your lord?”
“Yes, my brother, truth is best,
I have slain him with his sword.

“I have slain him with his sword;
No highwaymen have I seen.”
“You must go home to your house;
Come with me, fair Monferrine.”

“Oh, no, no! my brother dear,
I can never more go home;
I go to confess myself
To the Holy Pope at Rome.”