O woe's me, ye people,
And woe, brave warriors all,
For the flower of all princes
Dead on Ronceval.

There lie many stark fighters
That with brave Roland rode -
Rinaldo of the White Thorn,
Ogier and Galdebode.

And Roland, ah, Roland,
That was first of them all,
Lieth among his captains
On red Ronceval.

Queens weep for Roland,
Kings go heavily:
There was none in Christendom
Better loved than he.

Prince of all courtesy,
Very true and kind:
Tears are his dwellings
Of Kaiser and of hind.

For herdsmen have hearkened,
Keeping sheep on the hill,
To a sound like the wind crying -
Yet all the winds are still.

It is the horn of Roland
Nevermore shall call -
That mourneth for slain armies
On red Ronceval.