The spits are wont to turn with; wine
And wheaten bread, that we may dine
In plenty each day of the siege.
Good friends, ye know me no hard liege;
My lady is right fair, see ye!
Pray God to keep you frank and free.
Love Isabeau, keep goodly cheer;
The Little Tower will stand well here
Many a year when we are dead,
And over it our green and red,
Barred with the Lady's golden head,
From mere old age when we are dead.
THE SAILING OF THE SWORD
ACROSS the empty garden-beds,
When the Sword went out to sea,
I scarcely saw my sisters' heads
Bowed each beside a tree.
I could not see the castle leads,
When the Sword went out to sea,