The book of British ballads . anger knight he came, In his blacke armoure dight:The ladye sighed a gentle sighe, That this were my true knighte! And nowe the gyaunt and knighte are mett Within the lists soe broad;And now with swordes soe sharpe of Steele, They gan to lay on load. The soldan strucke the knighte a stroke, That made him reele asyde;Then woe-begone was that fayre ladye, And thrice she deeply sighde. The soldan strucke a second stroke,And made the bloude to flowe: All pale and wan was that ladye fayre,And thrice she wept for woe. The soldan strucke a third fell stroke,Which brought
The book of British ballads . anger knight he came, In his blacke armoure dight:The ladye sighed a gentle sighe, That this were my true knighte! And nowe the gyaunt and knighte are mett Within the lists soe broad;And now with swordes soe sharpe of Steele, They gan to lay on load. The soldan strucke the knighte a stroke, That made him reele asyde;Then woe-begone was that fayre ladye, And thrice she deeply sighde. The soldan strucke a second stroke,And made the bloude to flowe: All pale and wan was that ladye fayre,And thrice she wept for woe. The soldan strucke a third fell stroke,Which brought the knighte on his knee: Sad sorrow pierced that ladyes heart,And she shriekt loud shriekings three. The knighte he leapt upon his feete, All recklesse of the pain :Quoth hee, But heaven be now my speede, Or else I shall be slaine. He grasped his sworde with mayne andAnd spying a secrette part, [mighte, He drave it into the soldans syde,And pierced him to the heart. ^ X^3 J. Franklin del. G. Dalziel sc. 310 &\x © Then all the people gave a shoute,Whan they sawe the soldan falle: The ladye wept, and thanked Christ,That had reskewed her from thrall. And nowe the kinge with all his harons Rose uppe from offe his seate,And downe he stepped into the listes, That curteous knighte to greete. But he for payne and lack of bloude Was fallen into a swounde,And there all walteringe in his gore Lay lifelesse on the grounde. Come downe, come downe, my daughterThou art a leeche of skille; [deare, Farre lever had I lose halfe my landes,Than this good knighte sholde spille. Downe then steppeth that fayre ladye, To helpe him if she maye;But when she did his beavere raise, It is my life, my lord, she sayes, And shriekte and swound awaye. Sir Cauline juste lifte up his eyesWhen he hearde his ladye crye, O ladye, I am thine owne true love;For thee I wisht to dye. Then giving her one partinge looke, He closed his eyes in death,Ere Christabelle, that ladye milde, Begane to drawe her breath.
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