One night I fled, beyond the dread,
And looked for place to lay my head,
So thought upon the sainted dead,
Yea, how it was if they were gone.
Oh, wished it well, for such a spell,
As would surely one truth tell,
How when at tripping heart’s last knell,
Sun chimed the ice at dawn.
If by hap some ghost was true,
Or Aiken Drum feared hallowed dew,
Yes, if the haunted folk grew few,
Still chanting sunrise would last long.
Are dead men holy, even they,
Who perished in a loathsome way?
This life again to worse than fey,
If saints could sing their song.
They rise again, no doubt gone by,
The fated ones with only sighs,
Who perished e’er they ever die,
But rise again, in a dun saint’s eye,
For the bells of old ring long.
Stumble, curse, or doubt this rune,
Until your angel finds your tune,
And plucks the strings un-slung at doom,
When Good makes one with Strong.