Five monks set forth upon a pilgrimage,

To make their way to Canterbury town.

Five monks in all, each one a sage,

Well dressed in monkish hood and monkish gown.

They stopped to rest beside a flowing spring,

And drank their fill of bubbling water pure,

And as they sat they fell to arguing

On point of scripture that each one was sure

He owned the truth, and heated was their talk.

From neath his cloak one pulled an evil knife,

And flashed the blade, nor did he even balk

Until he’d ended every monkish life

Of four companions. Seeing what he’d done

He felt remorse and dug in rain-soft earth

A grave, and placed the bodies, one by one

Beneath the ground, despite their generous girth.

He covered them with dirt and sticks and stones,

And scratched these warning words upon a rock:

“A curse on you who move these holy bones,

As sure as just at sunrise crows the cock.”