Kyng Davyd hee stode on the rising hille,
And the verdante prospecte view'd;
And hee sawe that sweete river that o'er the moore
Roll'd on her sylver floode.
Oh then bespake that noble kyng,
And with griefe hys hearte was woo'd:
"And ever I mourne that yon fayre streame
Shoulde be swell'd with human bloode!"
Kynge Davyd hee sawe the verdante moore,
With wilde flow'res all bestrow'de: