Overlooking the valley below,
high on the edge of a mountain,
stands the mighty castle of Baux,
a dark and cursed ruin.
The echoes of a thousand knights
come riding o'er the keepstone,
and at their head with ghostly sight
gallops the Lord of Baux,
his spirit seeking rest.
On barren stones he built his lair,
a monument to power.
And he kept his bride a prisoner there,
locked in the highest tower.
Inside the fires were burning bright,
with wine-lit eyes
a gleaming they sang, the battlements rang
with ballads of sword and long-bow
the bravest of all, though, sat before, so
silent and cold, the Lord of Baux.
High o'er the ivy-covered keep,
the marching steps are ringing.
And watching the birds fly to the sea,
a sad-eyed girl is weeping.
Never so kind and fair a maid,
never so sad a story.
Slowly she pined her life away,
surrounded by his
glory and fame. The travellers came
to carry the news for all to know
that always alone, his face of stone,
so silent and cold, the Lord of Baux.
Overlooking the valley below,
high on the edge of a mountain,
stands the mighty castle of Baux,
a dark and shattered ruin.
The echoes of a thousand knights
come riding o'er the keepstone,
and at their head with ghostly
sight gallops the Lord of Baux,
his spirit seeking rest.
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