I have read of an old world
In the merry days of eld,
When the knight his armor wore,
And the king gay tourneys held;
When the gentle couched the lance,
And the peasant bore the glave,
And beauty sweetly smiled upon
The loyal and the brave.
Yet mourn not that this stout old world like a dream has passed away,
That the clang of arms rings out no more, with stirring trumpets' fray,
That the sturdy knight so bold and the prince so stern and proud
Sleep well the long and silent sleep, each wrapped in his white shroud.
There is festival to-night
In the castle's lofty hall,
And the fire logs gleam bright
On the armor on the wall.
" Ho! " shouts the Baron, " Minstrels,
Let your harps sing merrilie,
Ho! fill the cups with foaming wine,
And drink to Chivalrie. "
But far off on a frosty moor, beside his humble cot,
The shivering serf his fagot rakes, nor murmurs at his lot,
His voice is hushed, his lips are closed, but his eye lets fall a tear,
When the night wind whispers tones of mirth to his unwilling ear.
The lord rides forth to battle
For our blessed Savior's shrine,
He battles with the Paynim
On the sands of Palestine.
His deeds shine out in story,
Of his arm so quick and strong,
The harper chants his glory forth
And breathes his name in song.
But the serf he toils from morning, he toils till evening grey,
With an aching brow and fainting heart he plods along his way,
Grief, like a night-bird, gloomily, sits brooding on his soul,
For him, no deeds of high emprise, no place on glory's scroll.
Oh! these merry tales of eld,
Of the days that now are gone,
How they flee before the truth
Like spirits from the dawn.
And poets sing of barons,
Of war, and gay amour,
But they never yet have caroled
The sad song of the poor.
Then mourn not that this stout old world like a dream has passed away,
That the clang of arms rings out no more with stirring trumpet's fray,
That the sturdy knight so bold, and the prince so stern and proud
Sleep well, their long and silent sleep, each wrapped in his white shroud.
In the merry days of eld,
When the knight his armor wore,
And the king gay tourneys held;
When the gentle couched the lance,
And the peasant bore the glave,
And beauty sweetly smiled upon
The loyal and the brave.
Yet mourn not that this stout old world like a dream has passed away,
That the clang of arms rings out no more, with stirring trumpets' fray,
That the sturdy knight so bold and the prince so stern and proud
Sleep well the long and silent sleep, each wrapped in his white shroud.
There is festival to-night
In the castle's lofty hall,
And the fire logs gleam bright
On the armor on the wall.
" Ho! " shouts the Baron, " Minstrels,
Let your harps sing merrilie,
Ho! fill the cups with foaming wine,
And drink to Chivalrie. "
But far off on a frosty moor, beside his humble cot,
The shivering serf his fagot rakes, nor murmurs at his lot,
His voice is hushed, his lips are closed, but his eye lets fall a tear,
When the night wind whispers tones of mirth to his unwilling ear.
The lord rides forth to battle
For our blessed Savior's shrine,
He battles with the Paynim
On the sands of Palestine.
His deeds shine out in story,
Of his arm so quick and strong,
The harper chants his glory forth
And breathes his name in song.
But the serf he toils from morning, he toils till evening grey,
With an aching brow and fainting heart he plods along his way,
Grief, like a night-bird, gloomily, sits brooding on his soul,
For him, no deeds of high emprise, no place on glory's scroll.
Oh! these merry tales of eld,
Of the days that now are gone,
How they flee before the truth
Like spirits from the dawn.
And poets sing of barons,
Of war, and gay amour,
But they never yet have caroled
The sad song of the poor.
Then mourn not that this stout old world like a dream has passed away,
That the clang of arms rings out no more with stirring trumpet's fray,
That the sturdy knight so bold, and the prince so stern and proud
Sleep well, their long and silent sleep, each wrapped in his white shroud.