THE LADYE THAT I LOVE.
Were I a doughty cavalier,
On fire for high-born dame,
To win her smile, with sword and spear,
I’d seek a warrior’s fame;
But since no more stern deeds of blood
The gentle fair may move,
I’ll woo in softer—better mood,
The ladye that I love.
For helmet bright with steel and gold,
And plumes that flout the sky,
I’ll bear a mind of hardier mould,
And thoughts that sweep as high.
For scarf athwart my corslet cast,
With her fair name y-wove,
I’ll have her pictured in my breast—
The ladye that I love.
No mettled steed through battle-throng,
Shall bear me bravely on,
But pride shall make my spirit strong,
Where honours may be won:
Among the great of mind and heart,
My prowess I will prove;
And thus I’ll win, by gentler art,
The ladye that I love.
R. C.