And crowding leagues from his angry liege,
  He left his castle to storm or siege,—­
       His poor beef-eaters to hold out,
  Or save themselves as well as they could,
  Or be food for crows:  what noble should
  Waste thought on such?  As a noble would,
       He prudently smuggled the gold out.

  In the feudal days, in the good old times
  Of feudal virtues and feudal crimes,
      A point of honor they’d make in it,
  Though sure in the end their flag must fall,
  To show stout fight and never to call
  A truce till they saw a hole in the wall
      Or a larder without any steak in it.

  The fight began.  Shouts filled the air,—­
  “St. George!” “St. Denis!”—­as here and there
       The shock of the battle shifted;
  There were catapult-shots and shots by hand,
  Ladders with desperate climbers manned,
  Rams and rocks, hot lead, and sand
       On the heads of the climbers sifted.

  But the sturdy churls would not give way,
  Though Richard in person rushed to the fray
       With all of his rash proclivity
  For knocks; till, despairing of knightly fame
  In doughty deeds for a doubtful claim,
  The hero of Jaffa changed his game
       To a masterly inactivity.

  He stretched his lines in a circle round,
  And pitched his tent on a rising ground
       For general supervision
  Of both the hostile camps, while he
  Could join with Blondel in minstrel glee,
  Or drink, or dice with Marcadee,
       And they—­consume provision.

  To starve a garrison day by day
  You may not think a chivalrous way
       To take a fortification. 
  The story is dull:  by way of relief,
  I make a digression, very brief,
  And leave the “ins” to swallow their beef,
       The “outs” their mortification.

  Many there were in Richard’s train
    More known to fame and of higher degree,
  But none that suited his fickle vein
    So well as Blondel and Marcadee. 
  Blondel had grown from a minstrel-boy
    To a very romantic troubadour
  Whose soul was music, whose song was joy,
    Whose only motto was Vive l’amour!
  In lady’s bower, in lordly hall,
    From the king himself to the poorest clown,
  A joyous welcome he had from all,
    And Care in his presence forgot to frown. 
  Sadly romantic, fantastic and vain,
    His heart for his head still made amends;
  For he never sang a malicious strain. 
    And never was known to fail his friends. 
  Who but he, when the captive king,
    By a brother betrayed, was left to rot,
  Would have gone disguised to seek and sing,
    Till he heard his tale and the tidings brought? 
  Little the listening sentries dreamed,
    As they watched the king and a minstrel play,
  That what but an idle rhyming seemed