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.      Kyrie eleison      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.      Kyrie eleison   Christe eleison