The knight doth mount his weary steed
With broken lance and rusty blade,
Seeking one who must be freed,
And hasting fly unto her aid.
Though battered sore may be his helm
And dusty be his raiment,
No foe shall ever overwhelm,
Nor e'er ask he for payment.
He strives alone to right the wrongs
Committed ever on the weak.
He asks not glory, needs no songs
Never fleeting fame doth seek.
Arriving like a wandering wraith,
So likewise doth he questing go,
In Dulcinea ‘bides his faith,
And on her all his heart bestow.
So though his path is ever long,
Neath burning sun or frosty night,
Upon his lips doth dwell the song
Of hope to stand up for the right.