Proud maiden, tall and fair,
Under helm of shadowy hair,
Stands alone but does not weep,
Though little hope does she now keep.

The wind blows ’round her golden mantle,
In her hand, a withered candle
Still burns dull into the night,
All comfort lost from its pale light.

Shadows cast upon her brow,
She now recalls his solemn vow
That he took on in fortnights past,
Here called upon to honor at last.

He told her he would love her still,
Over mountain; under hill.
But to his country he had sworn
His sword and mighty iv’ry horn.

She stood silent as he took leave,
Amidst the chill and windy eve.
And with one last kiss upon her hand,
He rode to fight for Lord and land.

So there she stands alone, forlorn,
No strength left for her to mourn.
In the sky, no star does shine,
And not a tear falls from her eye.

Proud maiden, tall and fair,
Under helm of shadowy hair,
Stands alone and curses war,
As wind sweeps o’er the silent moor.