König Cailan

The autumn winds blow cold and shrill,
O'er ancient glen, and haunted hill,
Where once a slender prince was born,
Ere breaking of the golden morn.
Young Cailan bore no heavy blade,
Yet by his word, the storms were stayed.

Hark! Raise the harp and strike the string!
Sing praise to Cailan, the Slender King!
A shield of peace in olden days,
Who walked the green and righteous ways.
With heart of gold and hands of grace,
He brought the light to Albion’s face.

When winter fields lay stark and cold,
And sheep did shiver in the fold,
King Cailan opened wide his door,
To feed the beggar and the poor.
He built the wells, he sowed the grain,
And healed the land of all its pain.

Hark! Raise the harp and strike the string!
Sing praise to Cailan, the Slender King!
A shield of peace in olden days,
Who walked the green and righteous ways.
With heart of gold and hands of grace,
He brought the light to Albion’s face.

No bloody wars did he pursue,
No crown of greed his spirit knew.
With wisdom deep and judgment fair,
He stayed the hand of dark despair.
By righteous law and gentle might,
He turned the shadows into light.

Now ages long have passed away,
Since he did rule that golden day,
Yet oak trees whisper in the glen,
Of him who loved the souls of men.
The gentlest king to wear the crown,
Whose holy mercy ne'er went down.

So sleep thee well, O noble knight,
Beneath the stars of silver light.
Thy memory, Sire, shall never fade,
The finest king that God e'er made.