by Sara Whinnery

 

‘Twas on a blue-skied cloudless morn

My good master, his sword in hand

Showed all his mettle to his band;

Easily was his armor borne,

Eager the heart that faith had sworn.

All peers, all men, in all the land,

Would count their lives as grains of sand,

When sounded him the battle-horn.

 

The morning had to noon-tide worn,

Our enemies all fled, unmanned,

But our great captain’s life fast waned,

And soon he lay there, dead, forlorn.

The air with hymns of   woe was torn,

As they bore him to the bright sea-strand,

From whence he sailed to Avalon.

 

Envoi

Though stabled here I eat my corn,

‘Tis glad I am that I was born;

Though little aid I gave my land,

I bore my king at his last stand.