A. D. 909

Three kings with naught of a care

To a hunting went;

Three kings of stirrup fair

And of yew-bow bent.

Away they rode with a song

On the summer tide;

Away from thrid and throng

By the blue lake side.

And “Ho!” they vaunted aloud

To the morning hills.

And “Ha!” — What reck the proud

For the God of Ills?

Naught! so they swagged thro the glade

Where the roe-buck rose:

She nosed the wind, affrayed

By the blod “Ho, hos!”

“Three arrows now to her heart!”

They shouted, and sped,

Each king, an evil dart

With a flinten head.

And O she staggered down —

O unpitied, slain!

But in her dreadful swoun

There was more than pain!

For Horror sprang from her blood,

A Spectre of Death!

It drew them thro the wood —

Where a Chapel saith

Masses for souls that are lost

In the wilds of sin —

There mumbled, “Ye'll pay cost

Ere to shrift ye win!”

Then led them to a bay tree

By an open grave,

Where three ghost-kings in three

Stony coffins clave.

Which spake, “Lo, we too were fair!” —

“Unto this ye'll come!” —

“Ay ye, who of naught beware!” —

So spake — and were dumb.

Then of fright and dread the kings flung

Away yew-tree bow

( The Chapel bell slow rung

With the bleak wind's blow ).

And fast they fled thro the glade

To the castle hall.

But God had not been stayed —

They were lepers, all!

Woe then to kings! to the pelf

That men call pride!

Christ shrive us all from self,

From the Death-sprite hide!