Gréat King of Lýonesse, táke back your thróne,
Drý all your téars away; hér you can’t ówn.

Górvenal wáits for you, sét to adjóurn,
Gó to where péace abounds, flée philtre’s búrn.

Íre-land’s knave sláin by you, úncled your nurse,
Fórtunate bóon you grant, Brángien made wórse.

Úncle yours, táken yours, nów has a wífe,
Lóves her he cánnot see shé is your lífe.

Líve in the wóods with her, lást it can nót,
Ándret still schémes for you, sóon you’ll be cáught.

Jásper ring, léave it, abándon such trícks,
Sénd no more méssages, ríver of stícks.

Córnish good néphew repént of your sín,
Cóme back to Lýonesse, néw to begín.

Bríttany cálls you, go nót to that lánd,
Thére to be strángled by Whíteness of hánd.