To hunt rode fierce King Rufus,
Upon a holy morn —
The Church had summon'd him to pray,
But he held the Church in scorn.
Sir Walter Tyrrel rode with him,
And drew his good bow-string;
He drew the string to smite a deer,
But his arrow smote the king!

Hurl'd from his trembling charger,
The death-struck monarch lay;
While fast, as flees the startled deer,
Rash Tyrrel fled away:
On the spot where his strong hand had made
So many desolate,
He died with none to pity him —
Such was the tyrant's fate!

None mourn'd for cruel Rufus:
With pomp they buried him;
But no heart grieved beside his bier —
No kindly eye grew dim;
But poor men lifted up their heads,
And clasp'd their hands, and said:
" Thank God, the ruthless Conqueror
And his stern son are dead!"