_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!