Once in Tula there lived a king,
Loyal till death, the finest of all,
His dearest love, in dying agony,
Left him a golden cup as a final call.
Nothing he owned was held more dear
Than that cup he cherished deep—
Each time he thought of his maiden fair,
He drank, and tears began to weep.
When judgment day for the old king came,
He gathered his people from every land:
“All I have shall pass by name—
But this cup alone shall stay in my hand.”
And so at feasts, with nobles near,
Beside the king in banquet grand,
In halls inherited from forefathers dear,
High in the castle by the sea they’d stand.
Then stood the old drunkard on his feet,
Raised the cup – his last comfort to sever,
And hurled it forth with all his might,
Out over the foaming waves forever.
He watched the cup fill, bit by bit,
And sink slowly beneath the tide—
He closed his eyes, and then he quit
This world. Love’s fool, he never again drank—or cried.
