The Maid Of Lochac
By Damocles
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I've no sheep on the mountains nor boat on the lake
Nor coin in my coffer to keep me awake
Nor corn in my garner, nor fruit on my tree
Yet the maiden of Lochac smiles sweetly on me.

Rich gentles will tell you with eyes full of scorn
Threadbare is my tunic and my hosen are torn
Scoff on my rich gentles, for faint is thy glee
When the maiden of Lochac smiles sweetly on me.

The farmer rides proudly to market and fair
And the clerk at the ale house still claims the great chair
But of all our proud fellows, the proudest I'll be
When the maiden of Lochac smiles sweetly on me