And longer still waxes his beard;
But the maiden so fair in his arms grows amain,

’Neath her star all-protecting and bright,
Secured in the mantle from wind and from rain—­”

The children they hear with delight.

“And year upon year with swift footstep now steals,
The mantle it fades, many rents it reveals,

The maiden no more it can hold. 
The father he sees her, what rapture he feels!

His joy cannot now be controll’d. 
How worthy she seems of the race whence she springs,

How noble and fair to the sight! 
What wealth to her dearly-loved father she brings!”—­

The children they hear with delight.

“Then comes there a princely knight galloping by, She stretches her hand out, as soon as he’s nigh,

But alms he refuses to give. 
He seizes her hand, with a smile in his eye: 

‘Thou art mine!’ he exclaims, ‘while I live!’ ‘When thou know’st,’ cries the old man, ’the treasure that’s there,

A princess thou’lt make her of right;
Betroth’d be she now, on this spot green and fair—­’”

The children they hear with delight.

“So she’s bless’d by the priest on the hallowed place, And she goes with a smiling but sorrowful face,

From her father she fain would not part. 
The old man still wanders with ne’er-changing pace,

He covers with joy his sad heart. 
So I think of my daughter, as years pass away,

And my grandchildren far from my sight;
I bless them by night, and I bless them by day”—­

The children they hear with delight.

He blesses the children:  a knocking they hear,
The father it is!  They spring forward in fear,

The old man they cannot conceal—­
“Thou beggar, wouldst lure, then, my children so dear?

Straight seize him, ye vassals of steel! 
To the dungeon most deep, with the fool-hardy knave!”

The mother from far hears the fight;
She hastens with flatt’ring entreaty to crave—­

The children they hear with delight.

The vassals they suffer the Bard to stand there,
And mother and children implore him to spare,

The proud prince would stifle his ire,
’Till driven to fury at hearing their prayer,

His smouldering anger takes fire: 
“Thou pitiful race!  Oh, thou beggarly crew!

Eclipsing my star, once so bright! 
Ye’ll bring me destruction, ye sorely shall rue!”

The children they hear with affright.

The old man still stands there with dignified mien,
The vassals of steel quake before him, I ween,

The Count’s fury increases in power;
“My wedded existence a curse long has been,

And these are the fruits from that flower! 
’Tis ever denied, and the saying is true,

That to wed with the base-born is right;
The beggar has borne me a beggarly crew,—­”