He was a Prince of lust and pride; He showed no grace till the hour he died.140
When he should be king, he oft would vow, He'd yoke the peasant to his own plough. O'er him the ships score their furrows now.
God only knows where his soul did wake, But I saw him die for his sister's sake.145
By none but me can the tale be told, The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold. (Lands are swayed by a king on a throne.)
'Twas a royal train put forth to sea, Yet the tale can be told by none but me.150 (The sea hath no king but God alone.)
And now the end came o'er the waters' womb Like the last great Day that's yet to come.
With prayers in vain and curses in vain, The White Ship sundered on the mid-main:155
And what were men and what was a ship Were toys and splinters in the sea's grip.
I Berold was down in the sea; And passing strange though the thing may be, Of dreams then known I remember me.160
Blithe is the shout on Harfleur's strand When morning lights the sails to land: