Along the winding brook side
There limped a dying knight
Helm cracked and eyes fixed wide
He stumbled without sight

From far away he had come
For glory and for crown
But now he heard a drum
That marched him surely down

Falling to his knees he sighed
"Forgive me that I cry
My Lady love, my bride
But I do not wish to die."

The sun rose up the next day
And there beneath the brush
A cold stiff body lay
Sung over by a thrush

Now listen to me my friend
There is no great glory
To meet a hero's end
In some bard's sad story