"For, ah! in travel sore she fell, So sore that she must dye; Unless some shrewd and cunning leech Could ease her presentlye. 120
"But when a cunning leech was fet, Too soon declared he, She, or her babe must lose its life; Both saved could not be.
"Now take my life, thy lady said, 125 My little infant save: And O commend me to my lord, When I am laid in grave.
"O tell him how that precious babe Cost him a tender wife: 130 And teach my son to lisp her name, Who died to save his life.
"Then calling still upon thy name, And praying still for thee; Without repining or complaint, 135 Her gentle soul did flee."
What tongue can paint lord Albret's woe, The bitter tears he shed, The bitter pangs that wrung his heart, To find his lady dead? 140
He beat his breast: he tore his hair; And shedding many a tear, At length he askt to see his son; The son that cost so dear.
New sorrowe seiz'd the damsells all: 145 At length they faultering say; "Alas! my lord, how shall we tell? Thy son is stoln away.
"Fair as the sweetest flower of spring, Such was his infant mien: 150 And on his little body stampt Three wonderous marks were seen:
"A blood-red cross was on his arm; A dragon on his breast: A little garter all of gold 155 Was round his leg exprest.
"Three carefull nurses we provide Our little lord to keep: One gave him sucke, one gave him food, And one did lull to sleep. 160
"But lo! all in the dead of night, We heard a fearful sound: Loud thunder clapt; the castle shook; And lightning flasht around.
"Dead with affright at first we lay; 165 But rousing up anon, We ran to see our little lord: Our little lord was gone!
"But how or where we could not tell; For lying on the ground, 170 In deep and magic slumbers laid, The nurses there we found."
O grief on grief! lord Albret said: No more his tongue cou'd say, When falling in a deadly swoone, 175 Long time he lifeless lay.
At length restor'd to life and sense He nourisht endless woe, No future joy his heart could taste, No future comfort know. 180
So withers on the mountain top A fair and stately oake, Whose vigorous arms are torne away, By some rude thunder-stroke.
At length his castle irksome grew, 185 He loathes his wonted home; His native country he forsakes In foreign lands to roame.