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At the feast of good Saint Stitchem,
In the middle of the Spring,
There was some superior jousting,
By the order of the King.
"Valiant knyghtes!" proclaimed the monarch,
"You will please to understand,
He who bears himself most bravely
Shall obtain my daughter's hand."
Well and bravely did they bear them,
Bravely battled, one and all;
But the bravest in the tourney
Was a warrior stout and tall.
None could tell his name or lineage,
None could meet him in the field,
And a goose regardant proper
Hissed along his azure shield.
"Warrior, thou hast won my daughter!"
But the champion bowed his knee,
"Royal blood may not be wasted
On a simple knight like me.
She I love is meek and lowly;
But her heart is kind and free;
Also, there is tin forthcoming,
Though she is of low degree."
Slowly rose that nameless warrior,
Slowly turned his steps aside,
Passed the lattice where the princess
Sate in beauty, sate in pride.
Passed the row of noble ladies,
Hied him to an humbler seat,
And in silence laid the chaplet
At the taylzeour's daughter's feet.
