17
As late I chanc'd to crave an alms,
About this evening hour,
Me-thought I heard a lady’s voice
Lamenting in the tower.
And when I asked what harm had happ’d
What lady sick there lay?
They rudely drove me from the gate,
And bade me wend away.
These tidings caught Sir Bertram’s ear,
He thank’d him for his tale;
And soon he hasten’d o’er the hills,
And soon he reach’d the vale.
Then drawing near those lonely towns,
Which stood in Dale so low,
And sitting down beside the gate,
His pipes he ’gan to blow.
Sir Porter, is thy lord at home,
To hear a minstrel’s song?
Or may I crave a lodging here,
Without offence or wrong?
My lord, he said, is not at home,
To hear a minstrel’s song:
And should I lend thee lodging here,
My life would not belong.
He play’d again so soft a strain,
Such power sweet sounds impart,
He won the churlish porter’s ear,
And mov’d his stubborn heart.
Minstrel, he said, thou play’st so sweet,
Fair entrance thou shouldst win;
But, alas! I’m sworn upon the rood,
To let no stranger in.
Yet, minstrel, in yon rising cliff,
Thou’lt find a sheltering cave;
And here thou shalt my supper share,
And there thy lodging have.
All day he sits beside the gate,
And pipes both loud and clear;
All night he watches round the walls,
In hope’s his love to hear.
The first night, as he silent watch’d,
All at the midnight hour,
He plainly heard his lady’s voice
Lamenting in the tower.
