The Knight’s heart swelled high.  “And to such men is Italy given up!” thought he.  His revery was broken by a loud burst of applause from some convivialists hard by.  He turned, and under a long tent, and round a board covered with wine and viands, sate some thirty or forty bravoes.  A ragged minstrel, or jongleur, with an immense beard and mustachios, was tuning, with no inconsiderable skill, a lute which had accompanied him in all his wanderings—­and suddenly changing its notes into a wild and warlike melody, he commenced in a loud and deep voice the following song:—­

The Praise of the Grand Company.

     1.

     Ho, dark one from the golden South,—­
     Ho, fair one from the North;
     Ho, coat of mail and spear of sheen—­
     Ho, wherefore ride ye forth? 
     “We come from mount, we come from cave,
     We come across the sea,
     In long array, in bright array,
     To Montreal’s Companie.” 
     Oh, the merry, merry band. 
     Light heart, and heavy hand—­
     Oh, the Lances of the Free!

     2.

     Ho, Princes of the castled height—­
     Ho, Burghers of the town;
     Apulia’s strength, Romagna’s pride,
     And Tusca’s old renown! 
     Why quail ye thus? why pale ye thus? 
     What spectre do ye see? 
     “The blood-red flag, and trampling march,
     Of Montreal’s Companie.” 
     Oh, the sunshine of your life—­
     Oh, the thunders of your strife! 
     Wild Lances of the Free!

     3.

     Ho, scutcheons o’er the vaulted tomb
     Where Norman valour sleeps,
     Why shake ye so? why quake ye so! 
     What wind the trophy sweeps? 
     “We shake without a breath—­below,
     The dead are stirred to see,
     The Norman’s fame revived again
     In Montreal’s Companie.” 
     Since Roger won his crown,
     Who hath equalled your renown,
     Brave Lances of the Free?

     4.

     Ho, ye who seek to win a name,
     Where deeds are bravest done—­
     Ho, ye who wish to pile a heap,
     Where gold is lightest won;
     Ho, ye who loathe the stagnant life,
     Or shun the law’s decree,
     Belt on the brand, and spur the steed,
     To Montreal’s Companie. 
     And the maid shall share her rest,
     And the miser share his chest,
     With the Lances of the Free! 
     The Free! 
     The Free! 
     Oh! the Lances of the Free!

Then suddenly, as if inspired to a wilder flight by his own minstrelsy, the jongleur, sweeping his hand over the chords, broke forth into an air admirably expressive of the picture which his words, running into a rude, but lively and stirring doggerel, attempted to paint.

The March of the Grand Company.