You die to tell, but leave untold,
The story of your Red-Cross Knight,
Who proffer'd mountain-heaps of gold
If he for you might ride and fight;
Or how the jolly soldier gay
Would wear your colours, all and some;
But you disdain'd their trumpet's bray,
And would not hear their tuck of drum.
We love; but 'tis the simplest case:
The faith on which our hands have met