Cyril Rootham
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The damsel stood to watch the fight, by the banks of Kingslea Mere; And they brought to her feet her own true knight sore wounded on a bier. She knelt by him his wounds to bind, She washed them with many a tear. And shouts rose fast upon the wind which told that the foe was near “Oh let not,” he said, “While yet I live, The cruel foe me take But with thy sweet lips a last kiss give And cast me in the lake.” Around his neck she wound her arms, And she kissed his lips so pale; and ever more the war’s alarms camelouder up the vale She drew him to the lake’s steep side, Where the red heath fringed the shore; She plunged with him beneath the tide, And they were seen no more.
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