“The diel may gang for Lamartine,
And flee away wi’ auld Hugo,
For a better minstrel than them baith
Within this very toun I know.
“O kens my liege the gude Walter,
At hame they ca’ him Bon Gaultier?
He’ll rhyme ony day wi’ True Thomas,
And he is in the castle here.”
The French King first he lauchit loud,
And syne did he begin to sing;
“My een are auld, and my heart is cauld,
Or I suld hae known the minstrels’ King.
“Gae take to him this ring o’ gowd,
And this mantle o’ the silk sae fine,
And bid him mak a maister sang
For his sovereign ladye’s sake and mine.”
“I winna take the gowden ring,
Nor yet the mantle fine:
But I’ll mak the sang for my ladye’s sake,
And for a cup of wine.”
The Queen was sitting at the cards,
The King ahint her back;
And aye she dealed the red honours,
And aye she dealed the black;
And syne unto the dourest Prince
She spak richt courteouslie;—
“Now will ye play, Lord Admiral,
Now will ye play wi’ me?”
The dourest Prince he bit his lip,
And his brow was black as glaur;
“The only game that e’er I play
Is the bluidy game o’ war!”
“And gin ye play at that, young man,
It weel may cost ye sair;
Ye’d better stick to the game at cards,
For you’ll win nae honours there!”
The King he leuch, and the Queen she leuch,
Till the tears ran blithely doon;
But the Admiral he raved and swore,
Till they kicked him frae the room.