“O Milon, Milon, husband dear! 
      Beneath the waves art thou;
    For love I have forsaken all,
      Yet love forsakes me now.

    “O Roland! thou, my dearest boy,
      Now fame and love to me;
    Come quickly, little Roland, come! 
      My hope rests all on thee.

    “Go to the city, Roland, go! 
      To beg us meat and bread;
    And whoso gives the smallest gift,
      Ask blessings on his head.”

    Now great King Charles at table sat,
      In the golden hall of state;
    With dish and cup the servants ran,
      On the noble guests to wait.

    Flute, harp, and minstrelsy now tune
      All hearts to joyful mood;
    The cheerful music does not reach
      To Bertha’s solitude.

    Before the hall in the court-yard sat
      Of beggars a motley throng;
    The meat and drink was more to them
      Than flute, and harp, and song.

    The king looked out, through the open door,
      Upon the beggar throng;
    Through the crowd he saw a noble boy,
      Pushing his way along.

    Strange was the little fellow’s dress,
      Of divers colors all;
    But with the beggars he would not stay,—­
      He looked up at the hall.

    Within the hall little Roland treads,
      As though it were his own;
    He takes a dish from the royal board
      In silence, and is gone.

    The king he thinks,—­“What do I see? 
      This is a curious way”;
    But, as he quietly submits,
      The rest do nothing say.

    In a little while again he comes,
      To the king he marches up,
    And little Roland boldly takes
      The royal golden cup.

    “Halloo! stop there! thou saucy wight!”
      King Charles’s voice did ring;
    Little Roland kept the golden cup,
      And looked up at the king.

    The king at first looked angrily;
      But very soon he smiled:—­
    “You tread here in our golden hall,
      As in the green woods wild.

    “From the royal table you take a dish,
      As they take an apple from a tree;
    As with the waters of the brook,
      With my red wine you make free.”

    “The peasant drinks from the running brook,
      On apples she may dine;
    My mother must have fish and game,
      For her is the foaming wine.”

    “Is thy mother such a noble dame
      As thou, my boy, dost boast,
    Then surely has she a castle fair,
      And of vassals a stately host.

    “Tell me, who may her sewer be? 
      And who cupbearer, too?”
    “My own right hand her sewer is;
      My left, cupbearer true.”

    “Tell on; who are her faithful guards?”
      “My two blue eyes alway.” 
    “Tell on; who is her minstrel free?”
      “My rosy mouth, I say.”