Glowing with love, on fire for fame <br />A Troubadour that hated sorrow <br />Beneath his lady's window came, <br />And thus he sung his last good-morrow: <br />'My arm it is my country's right, <br />My heart is in my true-love's bower; <br />Gaily for love and fame to fight <br />Befits the gallant Troubadour.' <br /> <br />And while he marched with helm on head <br />And harp in hand, the descant rung, <br />As faithful to his favourite maid, <br />The minstrel-burden still he sung: <br />'My arm it is my country's right, <br />My heart is in my lady's bower; <br />Resolved for love and fame to fight <br />I come, a gallant Troubadour.' <br /> <br />Even when the battle-roar was deep, <br />With dauntless heart he hewed his way, <br />'Mid splintering lance and falchion-sweep, <br />And still was heard his warrior-lay: <br />'My life it is my country's right, <br />My heart is in my lady's bower; <br />For love to die, for fame to fight, <br />Becomes the valiant Troubadour.' <br /> <br />Alas! upon the bloody field <br />He fell beneath the foeman's glaive, <br />But still reclining on his shield, <br />Expiring sung the exulting stave:- <br />'My life it is my country's right, <br />My heart is in my lady's bower; <br />For love and fame to fall in fight <br />Becomes the valiant Troubadour.'<br /><br />Sir Walter Scott<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-troubadour-2/
