I gaze not upon the dance,
Sweet Beatriz, lady mine;
For many a galliard I've seen in France,
But never such beauty as thine.
Then if thou lovest me so, young Count,
Oh! take me away with thee;
For nor gay nor young, though a prince's son,
Is the bridegroom they'd wed with me.
There was mourning in France, I ween,
In the royal town of Paris;
For no more was seen either Count Martín
Or the lovely Lady Beatriz.
A SERVIAN SONG
I.
WHEREFORE neighest thou so sadly?
Stampest with the hoof so madly?
Speak, my steed—why at the tent,
With thy stately neck down bent?