The book of British ballads . st yee allWill fight for my daughter and mee ? Whoever will fight yon grimme soldan,Right fair his meede shall bee. For hee shall have my broad lay-lands, And of my crowne be heyre ;And he shall winne fayre Christabelle To be his wedded fere. But every knighte of his round table Did stand both still and pale :For whenever they lookt on the grim soldan, It made their hearts to quail. All woe-begone was that fayre ladye,When she sawe no helpe was nye: She cast her thought on her owne true-love,And the teares gusht from her eye. Up then sterte the stranger knighte,Sa
The book of British ballads . st yee allWill fight for my daughter and mee ? Whoever will fight yon grimme soldan,Right fair his meede shall bee. For hee shall have my broad lay-lands, And of my crowne be heyre ;And he shall winne fayre Christabelle To be his wedded fere. But every knighte of his round table Did stand both still and pale :For whenever they lookt on the grim soldan, It made their hearts to quail. All woe-begone was that fayre ladye,When she sawe no helpe was nye: She cast her thought on her owne true-love,And the teares gusht from her eye. Up then sterte the stranger knighte,Sayd, Ladye, be not affrayd: He fight for thee with this grimme soldan,Thoughe he be unmacklye made. And if thou wilt lend me the EldridgeThat lyeth within thy bowre, [sworde, I trust in Christe for to slay this fiende,Thoughe he be stiffe and stowre. G-oe fetch him downe the Eldridge sworde,The king he cryde, with speede : Nowe heaven assist thee, courteous knighte ;My daughter is thy meede. J. Franklin del. G. Dalziel so. 309. The gyaunt he stepped into the lists, And sayd, Awaye, awaye:I sweare, as I am the hend soldan, Thou lettest me here all daye. Then forthe the stranger 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 sword
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