And at least three queens of the English land—
In a circle they lie, round the good Confessor,
Crown on the head and scepter in hand.
Gone from his tomb are the wondrous riches
It once did hold, both of gems and gold;
But you still may see the Gothic niches
Where the sick awaited the cure of old.
Beggar or lord, poor drudge or duchess,
Alike might they hope for the good saint’s aid;
And they left their jewels, or dropped their crutches