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bois ton sang, beaumanoir.
Profane not the place by so base a libation!
Look around ye—look upward! and drink if ye dare!
Away with the wine-cup, the curse of creation!
Yon fount has enough for us all, and to spare.
Look around ye—look upward! and drink if ye dare!
Away with the wine-cup, the curse of creation!
Yon fount has enough for us all, and to spare.
"BOIS TON SANG, BEAUMANOIR!"[1]
Fierce raged the combat—the foemen press'd nigh,
When from young Beaumanoir rose the wild cry,
Beaumanoir, 'mid them all, bravest and first,
"Give me to drink, for I perish of thirst!"
Hark! at his side, in the deep tones o ire,
"Bois ton sang, Beaumanoir!" shouted his sire!
When from young Beaumanoir rose the wild cry,
Beaumanoir, 'mid them all, bravest and first,
"Give me to drink, for I perish of thirst!"
Hark! at his side, in the deep tones o ire,
"Bois ton sang, Beaumanoir!" shouted his sire!
Deep had it pierced him—the foemen's swift sword—
Deeper his soul felt the wound of that word!
Deeper his soul felt the wound of that word!
- ↑ The incident is related in Froissart's Chronicles.
