The Oxford Book of Canadian Verse
MalbrouckWilliam McLennan (18561904)
M
Mironton, mironton, mirontaine,
Malbrouck has gone a-fighting,
But when will he return?
Or else at Trinity Term.
And Malbrouck comes not yet.
As high as she can get.
All clad in sable hue:
From my true lord bring you?’
Will make your tears run down;
And doff your satin gown.
And buried too, for ay;
His mighty corse away.
His shield of iron wrought;
And the fourth—he carried nought.
They planted rose-marie;
Rings out her carol free.
His soul fly forth amain;
And then rose up again.
For which great Malbrouck bled;
Each one went off to bed.
Mironton, mironton, mirontaine,
I say no more, my Lady,
As nought more can be said.’