Folded in robes of a purple damask
she rides her white steed into town
Everyone stares, some whisper and ask
who’s that there? Is that the Lady Guinevere?
Sitting the Queenly head of the court
with Sir Lancelot always at hand
Her mistral will play, her royal guests will all cheer
To pull forth a smile from sweet Guinevere.
My Lady, Lady, what will you please?
What make’s your heart, like Spring?
My Lady, Lady, given your fame,
Yours is the name, that makes minstrels sing.
Pulling away, so soft as a sylph,
she can hear the lute as it rings.
Here in her kingdom nobody is sad
and she dances all night like a dream
I like to see how she floats on a cloud
it seems to dissolve my fears
I feel all the joy, there is to be had
When I dance with my Lady, Guinevere.
My Lady, Lady, what do you please?
What makes your heart like Spring?
My Lady, my lady, given your fame
Only your smile can make minstrels sing.