Oh gentle and beguiling Prince

Why do'st thee hang thine head?

Do'st thou in memory roam the field

And in horror count your dead?

Those faces with their sightless eyes,

Do they haunt thy sleeping cot?

Do their broken bodies fail to rise

In your defence of Camelot?

They once rose and followed in your wake

Beneath banners red and gold,

To allow thee thy revenge to take

On enemies who got too bold.

But who now will avenge the dead

That lie scattered on this field?

Who will ensure the widows, bread,

When the harvest's at low yeild?

Oh gentle and unsmiling Prince

Curtail thy need to roam,

Thy people and thy Kingdom

Now need thy strength at home!

In Arthur's Field