The last saraband has been danc'd in the hall,
The last prayer breath'd by the maiden ere sleeping,
The light from the cresset has died from the wall,
Yet still a love-watch with my Lady I'm keeping.
My charger is jangling his bridle and chain,
The moment is nearing, dear love! we must sever,
But pour out the wine, that thy lover may drain
A last stirrup cup to his true maiden ever!

I cannot ride off, I am heavy with fears,
No gay disregard from the flagon I borrow,
I pledge thee in wine, but 'tis mingled with tears,
Twin-type of the Love that is shaded by sorrow;
Yet courage, mine own one, and if it be will'd
That back from the red field thy gallant come never,
In death he'll remember, that she who had fill'd
His last stirrup-cup, was his true maiden ever!