The Count Rollánd casts o'er the mounts and vales

A glance: French corses strew the plains in heaps;

He for them mourns as gentle chevalier.

At such a sight the noble hero weeps:

"Seigneurs, to you may God be merciful!

To all your souls may He grant Paradise,

And there may they on beds of heavenly flowers

Repose!—No better vassals lived! so long

Have ye served me! So many lands for Carle

Ye won!—The Emperor for this ill fate

Has nurtured you!—O land of France, most sweet

Art thou, but now forsaken and a waste.

Barons of France, to-day I see you die

For me; nor can I save or e'en defend

Your lives. Be God your aid, who ne'er played false!

Olivier, brother, I must not fail thee!

If other death comes not, of grief I die.

Come, sire companion ... come to fight again!"

Aoi.