Clear is the night, bright shines the moon; at rest

Lies Carle; but grief is with him for Rollánd,

And Olivier is heavy on his heart;

The twelve Peers, too, and all the men of France,

Left stark and bloody there at Ronceval.

He cannot help but weep, and sob, and pray

That mighty God be keeper of their souls.

Tired is the King, his toils being very great;

Deeply asleep he falls, and can no more.

Through all the fields the scattered French sleep sound,

Nor there a horse has strength enough to stand;

If one need grass, he bites it as he lies.

Right wise is he that's wise in lore of woe.

Aoi.