King Arthur's Tomb
Block all the upland roads with trees;
The Little Tower with no great ease
Is won, I warrant; bid them bring
Much sheep and oxen, everything
The spits are wont to turn with; wine
And wheaten bread, that we may dine
In plenty each day of the siege;
Good friends, ye know me no hard liege;
My lady is right fair, see ye!
Pray God to keep you frank and free.
Love Isabeau, keep goodly cheer;
The Little Tower will stand well here
Many a year when we are dead,
And over it our green and red,
Barred with the Lady's golden head;
From mere old age when we are dead.