Young Arthur :: :: University of Virginia Library

Young Allan he was of a noble race,
For a noble knight his sire;
Young Allan had all of true manly grace,
Honour seem'd stamp'd in his form and his face;
And his bosom contain'd its fire;
Now, his form was neglected, his face was wan,
And his bosom heav'd heavy; for peace was gone.

He claim to a noble line could lay,
And his sire was a noble knight;
Few could a prospect like his display:
But clouds will shadow the brightest day;
And hope has many a blight:

And now young Allan, at winter-fall,
No shelter could find in his father's hall;
There all was wassel, now all is woe,
And for old Sir Allan the bell must go.

The bell must go,
And the hearse move slow,
And deep the grave be made!
For, on the bier,
With a sigh and a tear,
A noble knight they've laid;
And now to the tomb, for aye and for all,
They've carried him forth from his father's hall.

The old knight dead,
To lay his head
No roof young Allan found;
'Twas his father's wrong;
For thus the song
Of old Sir Allan went round.