The white knight

Gallants, riding to the war,

Riding o'er the lea,

On the battlefield afar

Greet my love for me!

How should we your true-love greet?

How your true-love know?

Milk-white is his courser fleet,

White as falling snow.

White the cross upon his breast;

Golden spurs hath he;

White upon his lance's crest

Floats a pennon free.

Weep no more, no more, ladye,

Lowly rests his head;

On the plains of Brittany

Lies your lover dead.

Weep not, ladye, weep no more;

In a meadow fair

By his grave grey friars four

Speed his soul with prayer.