A duke there was, his name was Falfarun, Brother was he to King Marsiliun, He held their land, Dathan's and Abirun's;Beneath the sky no more encrimed felun;
Between his eyes so broad was he in front A great half-foot you'ld measure there in full.
His nephew dead he's seen with grief enough, Comes through the press and wildly forth he runs, Aloud he shouts their cry the pagans use;And to the Franks is right contrarious:
"Honour of France the Douce shall fall to us!"Hears Oliver, he's very furious, His horse he pricks with both his golden spurs, And goes to strike, ev'n as a baron doth;The shield he breaks and through the hauberk cuts, His ensign's fringe into the carcass thrusts, On his spear's hilt he's flung it dead in dust.
Looks on the ground, sees glutton lying thus, And says to him, with reason proud enough:
"From threatening, culvert, your mouth I've shut.
Strike on, the Franks! Right well we'll overcome.""Monjoie," he shouts, 'twas the ensign of Carlun.
AOI.
