Was ever a knight in the Holy War: 
  For Richard many a Saracen’s head
  Had lopped before the old Count was dead;
  And Richard was home from Palestine,
  Home from the dungeon of Tiernstein,
  And many a Christian corpse had made,
  Ere the time in which the story is laid. 
  But the fashion he set became so strong,
  That Vidomar was hurried along,
  And did as many a peer has done
  On reaching a title and twenty-one,
  And met the fate that will meet a peer
  Who lives in state on nothing a year. 
  Deserted by all, except some Jews,
  Holding old post-obits and IOUs,
  Who hunted him up and hunted him down,
  He left Limoges, the capital town,
       For his country castle Chalus,
  (As spendthrift lords to Boulogne repair,
  To give their estates a chance to air,)
       And went to turning fallows;
  At least, he ordered it, (much the same,)
  And went himself in pursuit of game
       Or any rural pleasure,
  Till one fine day, as he rode away,
  A serf came running behind to say
  They’d found a crock of treasure. 
       No more he thought of hawk or hound,
  But spurred to the spot, and there he found,
       Beyond his boldest thoughts,
  A sum to set him afloat again,—­
  The leading figure, ’twas very plain,
       Was followed by several 0s.

  Oh, who can tell of the schemes that flew
  Through his head, as the treasure met his view,
  And he knew that again his note was good? 
  He may have felt as a debtor would
       Who has dodged a dogging dun,
  Or a bank-cashier in his hour of dread
  With brokers behind and breakers ahead,
  Or a blood with his last “upon the red,”—­
       And each expecting a run. 
  What should he do?  ’Twas very true
  That all of his debts were overdue;
  But the “real-whole-souled” must use their gold
  To run new scores,—­not to pay off old. 
  That night he lay till the break of day,
       The doubtful question solving: 
  Himself in his bed, and that in his head,
       He kept by turns revolving.

  That selfsame day, not very far
  From the country castle of Vidomar,
       The king had been progressing: 
  A courtly phrase, when the king was out
  On a chivalrous bender; any route
  As good as another:  what about
       Were little good in guessing.

  That night, as he sat and drank, he frowned,
  While courtiers moodily stood around,
       All wondering what the journey meant,
  Till a scout reported, “Treasure found!”—­
  With a rap that made the glasses bound,
  He swore, “By Arthur’s table round,
       I’ll have another tournament!”

  No more, as he sat and drank, he frowned,
  Or courtiers moodily stood around,
       But all were singing, drinking;
  And louder than all the songs he led,
  And louder he said, “Ho! pass the red!”
  Till he went to bed with a ring in his head
       That seemed like gold a-chinking.