The Reading-Club.
THE DRUMMER’S BETROTHED.
“Douce est la morte qui vient en bien aimant.”
Our liege lord, the Duc de Bretagne, To deadly battle for the king Summons sent from Nantes to Mortagne, In the plain and on the mountain, To warriors of his following.
Barons they are, whose gleaming arms Adorn the moated castle’s crest, Proud knights, grown old midst war’s alarms Esquires, and footmen with their arms; And my betrothed went with the rest.
He went to Aquitaine, and, though Among the drummers he’s enrolled, He seemed a captain, marching slow, With haughty head, and eyes aglow, And doublet glittering with gold.
Since then nor peace nor rest I know. Joining his lot with mine, I’ve cried To my St. Brigitte, bending low, Watch well his guardian angel, so That he shall never leave his side!
I said to our abbé one night, Pray for our soldiers, messire, pray! And since he loves to see their light, I left three candles burning bright Before St. Gildas’ shrine next day.
And to Our Lady of Lorette I promised in my cruel fright To wear—and see, I wear it yet— A ruff with pilgrim’s cockles set, Close hid from curious sight.