  Sad and soft is the dirge on the Gallic shore By the mournful moan of the ocean made For the days and the deeds that are now no more ’Ere the last of the Knights in his tomb was laid In the depth of an old cathedral’s shade; Above are his casque, shield, banner and lance With the sword that had struck him the accolade; But dead are the legends and lillies of France. Did he pine for the powder and polished floor, Gay dances, bright glances of masquerade? When he parleyed of politics, was it not o’er The lightning-blue gleam of his Damascene blade? If he sang, was it not of an old Crusade? If he listened and laughed at a love romance, Would he rather not look at a carronade? But dead are the legends and lilies of France. If his lady’s fair favour he sought to implore By a witty ballade or a sad serenade Did he write it? Not he, when a troubadour Was willing to sing all the day if paid Or to sigh all night in the moonbeam’s dance, While he dreamed of rampart and escalade; But dead are the legends and lilies of France. The Cathedral still stands with its fine faÇade; Some old stones of the rampart remain by chance; There are diplomats, dances, and gasconade— But dead are the legends and lilies of France. |
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