On Castile’s mountains or in Finland’s woods,
We drank beside the camp-fire.
“Those were songs!
Is there no bard, no minstrel in the crowd?
Wine maketh glad indeed the heart of man,
But song it is that forms the spirit’s wine.”
Then various singers all at once arose;
A fat Italian here, with birdlike tones,
Sings Konrad’s valour and great piety;
And there a troubadour from the Garonne,