’Twas her own dear warrior’s horn!
Woe! woe! each heart shall bleed—shall break!
She would have hung upon his neck,
Had he come but yester-even;
And he had clasped those peerless charms
That shall never, never fill his arms,
Or meet him but in heaven.
Yet Roland the brave—Roland the true—
He could not bid that spot adieu;
It was dear still ’midst his woes;