The Days of Chivalry.
In those good “olden times,” a “ladye bright” Might sit within her turret or her bower, While lovers sang and played without all night, And deemed themselves rewarded by a flower.
Yet if one favored swain would persevere, In despite of her haughty scorn and laugh, Perchance she threw him, with the closing year, An old odd glove, or else a worn-out scarf.
Off then, away he’d ride o’er sea and land, And dragons fell and mighty giants smite With the tough spear he carried in his hand; And all to prove himself her own true knight.
