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!
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