The priests go down to the river to fish for Friday's meal
The King is brooding day and night
Black with hate, cursing fate
To be ill when the foe is in sight
The priests they kneel in the chancel in solemn peaceful prayer
The King is laughing, grim and slow
Three brothers die, he hung them high
On a gibbet they died a cruel show
The priests they crouch o'er their books and scratch away at history
The King he rises from his bed
Leads his men, rides again
But before he sees the border he is dead
The priests they walk in procession with the coffin of state
The King he leaves his work undone
It is his fate, despite his hate
That his foe lives on to fight his son
