Woe work the hour, the day, when he
Vaulted upon his saddle-tree!
Ne'er from that seat should he descend
To challenge foe or welcome friend,
Nor knew he that the hour was near,
His couch should be the funeral bier.
Sadly we march along the crowded street,
While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat.
That day the master's knights were sent,
As if on sport and jousting bent;