This text comes from Songs of French Canada, a historical songbook transcribed on Wikisource and reproduced from the pinned revision linked below.
"Ah! Marianson, my beauteous dame,
Where is your lord and master gone?"
"My lord rides to the battle-plain;
I know not if he'll come again."
"Ah! Marianson, my lady fair,
Lend me your rings of gold so rare."
"In the iron chest beside my bed
You'll find the rings," she sweetly said.
"Now, goldsmith, fashion me with care
Three golden rings of metal rare—
"Three golden rings of fashion rare,
Like those that Marianson doth wear."
When he receives his golden rings,
Upon his steed he lightly springs;
The first he meets upon the road
Is Marianson's haughty lord.
"Fair greetings now, bold cavalier!
What tidings do you bring me here?"
"Of tidings new I bring you none,
Save of the Lady Marianson."
"Ah! Marianson, my lady fair!
She's faithful always, I boldly swear."
"I say not 'yes'—I say not 'no';
But see—the rings from her hands of snow."
"You lie! you lie! bold cavalier,
My wife is faithful far or near."
His wife stood on the ramparts high;
She saw her lord ride wildly by.
Her heart stood still with a sudden fear,
When she marked his face as he drew anear.
"Now, mother, show our new-born child;
Its grace will calm his anger wild."
"My son, behold your son and heir;
What name wilt thou give the babe to bear?"
He cried, "I'll give the child a name
That will fill its mother's life with shame."
He has seized the infant in its mirth,
And thrice has dashed it to the earth.
And Marianson, that lady fair,
He has tied to his horse by her golden hair.
Three days, three nights, he rode like wind,
And never cast a look behind.
Till, at the close of the third long night,
He turned and looked on that awful sight.
"Ah! Marianson, my lady fair,
Where are your golden rings so rare?"
"In the iron chest beside my bed
You'll find the rings," she sadly said.
He has ta'en the keys with an evil grace,
And has found the rings in their hiding-place.
"Ah! Marianson, my lady fair,
You shall have the best chirurgeon's care."
"The best chirurgeon I would crave
Is a fine white sheet for my quiet grave."
"Ah! Marianson, my beauteous dame,
Will God e'er pardon all my shame?"
"My death is pardoned now," she smiled,
"But never that of our helpless child."