Bury him here in the green grass.
He is not deserving of stone.
He was once a king and a soldier.
Now he is rightly unknown.
You may weep, but just for a moment.
Let chamberlains measure out tears.
These flowers from kings in a corner
Join those from dégringolés peers.
The woman he loved may be granted
A glance at his coffin uncrowned in the choir.
But close up the chapel that instant,
Lest the love of the people catch fire.
It is not for his sinning we cut him.
We are all of us sinners, they claim.
But his sins became known to the public,
So we drank no more to his name.
For we are the best, are the finest.
The deified monarch - ourselves.
When he showed himself weak as the poorest,
We banished his life from our shelves.
Black arm-bands for some of the princes,
While others shall dance through the night.
You must not suppose us unfeeling,
But we will not neglect any slight.