The yellow book: an illustrated quarterly (11.1896)

A Ballad of Cornwall

By F. B. Money Coutts

i
Sir Tristram lay by a well,
Making sad moan;
Fast his tears fell,
For wild the wood through,
Stricken with shrewd
Sorrow, he ran,
When he deemed her untrue—
La Beale Isoud !
For he loved her alone.
ii
So as he lay,
Wasted and wan,
Scarce like a man,
Pricking that way
His lady-love came,
With her damsels around,
And her face all a-flame
With the breezes of May ;

While