Ay there they stood on the self-same spot,
And, it might be, the self-same day;
But one was thinking and one was not,
In exactly the old, old way.
Let the proud Earl feast in his gilded halls,
But the sound of a maniac's curse
Rings ever and aye round the castle-walls
That shelter the grim Fitz-Urse.
For the gory head of a patriot sire
Shall smile on a long-lost son,
Ere an island home shall be girt with fire,
And a victory lost and won.
There's an empty chair in the ingle-nook,
And a trivet against the wall;
There's a ghastly stain in the Domesday book,
And a mystery shroudeth all.
Old Peter the Beadsman breathes a sigh
As he passes the churchyard lone,
Where the bones of the best and the bravest lie,
All under a milk-white stone.
But winter and summer there lies a blot
On the scutcheon of grim Fitz-Urse;
And the two stood there, on the self-same spot,
As I said in the opening verse.