For her, upon St. John's Day,
While she was gathering flowers,
The Moors had made a captive,
Beneath her father's towers.
And Moriana raised her eyes
And saw her lover ride,
And on her cheeks her Moorish lord
The sparkling tears descried.
With anger raged his spirit,
And thus to her he cried:
"What ails thee, gentle lady?
Why flows with tears thine eye?
If Moors of mine have done thee wrong,
I swear that they shall die;
If any of thy maidens
Have caused thee this distress,
The whip across their shoulders
Shall avenge their wickedness.
Or, if the Christian countrymen
Have sorrow for thee made,
I will, with conquering armies,
Their provinces invade.
The warlike weapons that I don
Are festal robes to me;
To me the din of battle
Is sweet tranquillity;
The direst toils the warrior bears
With steadfast joy I meet;
To me the watch that nightlong lasts
Is like a slumber sweet."
"No Moors of thine within these halls
Have caused to me this pain;
No maidens waiting in my bower
Have showed to me disdain;
Nor have my Christian kinsmen
To mourn my spirit made,
Provoking thee in vengeance
Their province to invade.
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