These iron-handed men would meet no bond but plighted word.
Each castle was a fortress then; each man could bend the bow,
Or lead the dance, or join the song with voice as soft and low,
As maidens when at night they hear their lovers’ whispered praise;
Oh! was not the world beautiful in those good olden days?
This world of ours was beautiful, when troubadours first sang,
And castle hall and cottage roof with love and glory rang;
When high-born damsels clustered round—perhaps to hear of one
Who joined the armies of the Cross, to fight ’neath Syria’s sun;
How he had borne the banner high amid the thickest fight,