It shot keen shafts of every hue

On the old king’s trembling hand

Where the veins were large and blue.

A jewel of price was that indeed,

Fit to buy a prince’s life;

A royal gift for the lady wife

Of a kinsman bold and true

Who had served the king at need.

Who was he, but the Red Macbeth

That wrought the false Macdonwald’s death,