Lyrics Death of King Arthur - Boris Grebenshikov

Of Lancelot du Lake tell I no more
But this by leave these ermytes seven
And still King Arthur lieth there, and Queen Guinevere
As I you newyn

And Monkes that are right of lore
Who synge with moulded stewyn
Ihesu, who hath woundes sore
Grant us the bliss of Heaven

And Monkes that are right of lore
Who synge with moulded stewyn
Ihesu, who hath woundes sore
Grant us the bliss of Heaven