King Witlaf’s Drinking-Horn Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Witlaf, a king of the Saxons,
         Ere yet his last he breathed,
To the merry monks of Croyland
         His drinking-horn bequeathed,—

That, whenever they sat at their revels,
         And drank from the golden bowl,
They might remember the donor,
         And breathe a prayer for his soul.

So sat they once at Christmas,
         And bade the goblet pass;
In their beards the red wine glistened
         Like dew-drops in the grass.

They drank to the soul of Witlaf,
         They drank to Christ the Lord,
And to each of the Twelve Apostles,
         Who had preached his holy word.

They drank to the Saints and Martyrs
         Of the dismal days of yore,
And as soon as the horn was empty
         They remembered one Saint more.

And the reader droned from the pulpit
         Like the murmur of many bees,
The legend of good Saint Guthlac,
         And Saint Basil's homilies;