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"
Never a whit did young John yield
When the lance ran through his painted shield;
Never a whit debased his crest,
When the lance ran into his tender breast.
"What is this? what is this, thou young Sir John,
That runs so fast from thine armour down?"
"Oh, this is my heart's blood, I feel,
And it wets me through from the waist to the heel."
Sights of sadness many a one
A man may meet beneath the sun;
But a sadder sight did never man see
Than lies in the Hall of Fontanlee.
There are three corses manly and fair,
Each in its armour, and each on its bier;
There are three squires weeping and wan,
Every one with his head on his hand,
Every one with his hand on his knee,
At the foot of his master silently
Sitting, and weeping bitterly
For the broken honour of Fontanlee.
Who is this at their sides that stands?
"Lift, O squires, your heads from your hands;
Tell me who these dead men be
That lie in the Hall of the Fontanlee.


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