Classic Poem

In Madrid there is a palace,
As bright as polished shell,
And in it lives a lady
They call Queen Isabel.
Not for count nor duke nor marquis
Her father would she sell,
For not all the gold in Spain could buy
The crown of Isabel.

One day when she was feasting
Within this palace grand,
A lad of Aragon walked in
And seized her by the hand.
Through street and square he dragged her
To a dreary prison cell,
And all that weary way she wept,
The lady Isabel.

" For whom art weeping, lady?
What gives thy spirit pain?
If thou weepest for thy brothers,
They will not come again.
If thou weepest for thy father,
He lies 'neath sheet of stone. "
" For these I am not weeping,
But for sorrows of mine own.

" I want a golden dagger. "
" A golden dagger! Why? "
" To cut this juicy pear in two.
Of thirst I almost die. "
We gave the golden dagger;
She did not use it well.
Ah, no, it was not pears you cut,
My lady Isabel.