Classic Poem

In the charcoal-burner's hut in the wood
The king sits sad and weary;
He rocks the charcoal-burner's child,
And sings a lullaby dreary.

Eiapopeia, what stirs in the hay?
The sheep in the fold are bleating —
There's a mark on thy brow and a smile on thy lips
That bode me ill from our meeting.

Eiapopeia, the cat is dead —
'Tis the mark — thou canst not dissemble —
Thou wilt soon be a man and swing the axe,
Already the oak trees tremble.

The charcoal-burner's ancient faith
Has perished; the sons come after —
Eiapopeia — who treat both God
And their king with scorn and laughter.

The cat is dead and the mice are gay,
From his high place each is driven —
Eiapopeia — I, king upon earth,
And God the King of heaven.

Eiapopeia — my courage is quenched,
My heart is sick with fearing.
Thou art marked by fate as my headsman, child,
And the day of doom is nearing.

Eiapopeia — thy cradle-song
Is my death-song — lo! thou hast shorn me
Of my grizzly locks — the iron sharp
Of thine axe has cut and torn me.

Eiapopeia, what stirs in the hay? —
My head from my trunk is smitten —
It falls to the ground — the cat is dead —
And thou art the lord of Britain.

Eiapopeia, what stirs in the hay?
The sheep in the fold bleat loudly.
The cat is dead and the mice are gay —
Sleep on, little headsman, proudly.