I like to hear the shout ring clear,
"Have at them, till they flee!"
Impatiently the horses neigh,
'Neath shelter of the wood,
While dying men choke up the moat:
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Little and great are there afloat,
The grass all stained with blood;
And knights upon the ground are dying, -
Transfixed with spears where they are lying.
Gallant nobles, yield as pledge
Castles, towns, and villages,
Ere you go to war anew.
Papiol* I bid thee go
Straightway back to "yes and no."-
Say, from one who understands,
Peace hangs heavy on our hands.
M.
*Name of the jongleur of Bertrand de Born.
-Name given by the poet to Richard Coeur-de-Lion.