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