But ha ! one day a fair lord fain,

With a gay plume on his head,
Young, handsome, and of Acquitaine,

For the maid who spins the thread.
His beauty and the gifts he brought

Won favour at the youthful court.
And after fair words murmuring.
They spoke of marriage and a ring.
What can a sweet-voiced zephyr do

Against these noble lords who strew

Pearls, sapphires, rubies ? Down he pours

A tempest on the castle towers.
Wall, spire and turret fairly rock.
For days the old stones feel the shock.
Within the very church he goes.
Now east, now west, now north he blows.
That none may cast a rose that day.
Their every leaf he strips away.
That none may speak the word divine.
He tries to dry the holy wine.
And when above the wedding bell

Would sound, it only rings a knell.
Yet foiled, he speeds with bitter cry.
To gather all his company.
Two awful years around they fly :

And the men fear, and the crops die.
The great Burg as a whisp of hay

They'll scatter next. But why delay ?

What's lying here ? A cradle, yea,

A dainty babe ! And mutely pray

The mother's lips against the day

When friends shall fail, and skies grow grey.
And the beauty of love triumphant seeing.
He bent and blessed that tiny head.
Yielding at once his hate and being

To the mother spinning thread.
