King Kenulph he died, as kings have died, The will of the Lord be done; And he left to the care of his daughter fair, Queen Quendred, an infant son. The daughter gazed at her brother king, Her eye had an evil mote; And then she played with his yellow hair, And patted his infant throat; And then she muster'd a bloody mind, And whisper'd a favour'd slut, While patting the infant monarch's throat, It would not be much to cut. The favour'd gipsey noted the hint, And she thought it not amiss, She hied to the infant's governor, And gave him a loving kiss. The kiss of woman's a wond'rous juice, That poisoneth pious minds, It worketh more than the wrath of hell, And the eye of justice blinds. So they cut the infant monarch's throat, They buried him in the wood, The Mistress Quendred liv'd as a queen, And they thought the deed was good. Now mark, how ill is a crime conceal'd, Bad deeds will never accord, The murder never beheld at home, Was to light elsewhere restor'd, They wash'd their hands in the monarch's blood, And the world roll'd on the same, Till swift to the holy shrine at Rome, A fluttering dove there came. A dove, a peaceful, timorous bird, That carried a parchment scroll, And in letters of gold, the crime it told, That blasted a sister's soul. That fluttering dove flew round the shrine, Where the Pope by chance was led, And he let the scribbled parchment fall On his holiness' bald head. Now the Pope was very sore perplex'd, At the words the dove had scrawl'd, For he could not read the pig-squeak tongue, Which is now old English call'd. He questioned the French ambassador, The news of that scroll to speak. Who bowing observed, "it was not _French_, He never had learn'd the _Greek_." He ask'd a monk from _Byzantium_, A monk as fat as a tench, He merely remark'd "it was not _Greek_, He never had learn'd the _French_." He question'd the grave Lord Cardinal, He ordered the monks to pray'rs, The monks ne'er knew what language it was, When they saw it was not theirs. But there chanced to be an Englishman, At Rome, on a trading hope, The tale of blood and the letters gold, He read to the holy Pope. 'Twas how King Kenulph an infant son, Bequeath'd to his daughter's care, And how the daughter slaughtered the son, It clearly mention'd where. Then the Pope cried, "Heaven's will be done," And a loud Hosanna sung, The incense fumed to the lofty dome. Like ray-beam drapery hung. And they canoniz'd the holy dove, Like the soul of a martyr dead, The deed is still in the calendar, In capital letters red. Now when to Britain the tidings came Of her island's perish'd hope, The monks took hatchets to _Winchcomb Wood_, And they glorified the Pope. And after many a night of toil, They struck at the infant's bone,