Fly away carrier dove, to our own green valo,
Where the homes of thy kindred are ;
Where the vine-bird is chanting his long love-tale,
And hush'd is the din of war—
For a lady there looks fi-om the battlement
Which hangs o'er the restless main—
She should know I was lord of the tournament,
And first on the battle plain.

Till she to her wild harp hath chanted my name
Bird of the swift wing, fame's not fame,
Till to triumph and joy her lone heart yield
Tis in vain I am lord of the battle field.
Haste away - haste away - to the battlement,
Spread thy wing o'er the stormy main —
She must know I was first at the tournament
And lord of the battle plain.