However well Sir Giles might sit, His sun was weak to wither it, Lord Miles's blood was dew on it: _Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._ Although my spear in splinters flew, From John's steel-coat, my eye was true; I wheel'd about, and cried for you, _Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._ Yea, do not doubt my heart was good, Though my sword flew like rotten wood, To shout, although I scarcely stood, _Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._ My hand was steady too, to take My axe from round my neck, and break John's steel-coat up for my love's sake. _Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._ When I stood in my tent again, Arming afresh, I felt a pain Take hold of me, I was so fain, _Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._ To hear: _Honneur aux fils des preux!_ Right in my ears again, and shew The gilliflower blossom'd new. _Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._ The Sieur Guillaume against me came, His tabard bore three points of flame From a red heart: with little blame, _Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._ Our tough spears crackled up like straw; He was the first to turn and draw His sword, that had nor speck nor flaw; _Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._ But I felt weaker than a maid, And my brain, dizzied and afraid, Within my helm a fierce tune play'd, _Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._ Until I thought of your dear head, Bow'd to the gilliflower bed, The yellow flowers stain'd with red; _Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._ Crash! how the swords met: _giroflee!_ The fierce tune in my helm would play, _La belle! la belle! jaune giroflee! Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._ Once more the great swords met again: "_La belle! la belle!_" but who fell then? Le Sieur Guillaume, who struck down ten; _Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._ And as with mazed and unarm'd face, Toward my own crown and the Queen's place, They led me at a gentle pace. _Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._ I almost saw your quiet head Bow'd o'er the gilliflower bed, The yellow flowers stain'd with red. _Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._ SHAMEFUL DEATH There were four of us about that bed; The mass-priest knelt at the side, I and his mother stood at the head, Over his feet lay the bride; We were quite sure that he was dead, Though his eyes were open wide. He did not die in the night, He did not die in the day, But in the morning twilight His spirit pass'd away, When neither sun nor moon was bright, And the trees were merely grey. He was not slain with the sword, Knight's axe, or the knightly spear, Yet spoke he never a word After he came in here; I cut away the cord From the neck of my brother dear.