His heart is stricken sore;
Sleep shunneth now his eyes by night;
His days are stricken with a blight;
He smileth now no more.
And still 'tis said God prospereth not
The holder of those lands,
And Sarum's heirs ne'er live to claim
The heritage of land and name—
It slippeth from their hands;
For one, 'tis said, hath fallen by chance;