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Glowing with love, on fire for fame,
A Troubadour that hated sorrow,
Beneath his Lady's window came,
And thus he sung his last good morrow:

“My arm it is my country's right,
My heart is in my true love's bow'r,
Gaily for love and fame to fight
Befits the gallant Troubadour.”

And while he march'd with helm on head
And harp in hand, the descant rung,
As faithful to his fav'rite maid
The minstrel burden still he sung:

“My arm it is my country's right,
My heart is in my Lady's bow'r,
Resolv'd for love and fame to fight,
I come, a gallant Troubadour.”

Alas! upon the battle field
He fell beneath the foeman's glaive,
But still reclining on his shield
Expiring sung the exulting stave:

“My life it is my country's right,
My heart is in my Lady's bow'r,
For love and fame to fall in fight
Becomes the gallant Troubadour.

My life it is my country's right,
My heart is in my Lady's bow'r,
For love and fame to fall in fight
Becomes the gallant Troubadour.

\\Words by Sir Walter Scott Music by Sir Arthur Sullivan