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 sure the truth to tell,
How when at tripping heart's last knell,
My sun chimed the ice at dawn.
If by hap some ghost was true,
Or Aiken Drum feared hallowed dew,
Nor even if the haunted folk grew few,
This chanting sunrise would last long.
All dead are holy, even they,
Who perished in that loathsome way,
Yet never life could have these fey,
'Lest saint could sing their song.
They rise again, no doubt gone by,
The fated ones with only sighs,
Who perished e'er they ever die,
To rise again in a dun saint's eye,
Who gleams to right a wrong.
Perish then who doubts this rune,
Until your angel finds your tune,
And plucks the strings unslung at doom,
When Good makes one with Strong.