I looked over the balustrade—
The twilight had come—
And saw the pretty waiting-maid
Kiss Roland, the page.
My lady heard the wolf-dog's chain
Clank on the floor;
Sly Roland caught it up again,
And whistled a song.
Oh! they think that my heart is cold,
Under my gown;
Not till I blacken into mould
Will it cease to burn.
Burn, burn for such sweet red lips!
I am almost mad,
Even to touch her finger tips,
When we meet alone.
Roland, the page, goes here and there,
Loving, and loved,
Women like his devil-may-care,
Till they are forgot!
Whether I am in castle or inn,
With sinner or saint,
Never can I a woman win,—
I am but a priest!