Nor silver, nor gold, nor ladye-love,

    Nor broad lands I give unto thee."

   "I care not for silver, I care not for gold,

    Nor for broad lands, nor fair ladye;

   But my honour and troth, and my good broadsword,

    Are the king's eternally."

   "Come hither, Sir John, thou art loyal and brave,"

    Again the monarch spake;

   "In my trouble and thrall, in the hour of pain,

    Thou pity didst on me take.

   "The white rose withers on every bough,

    And the red rose rears its thorn;

   But many a maid our strife shall rue,

    And the babe that is yet unborn.

   "I've charged in the battle with horse and lance,

    But I've doffed the warrior now;

   And never again may helmet of steel

    Bind this burning, aching brow!

   "Oh, had I been born of a simple churl,

    And a serving-wench for my mate,

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