The king in the red moorland

Rode on a summer's day;

And the bees hummed, and the curlews

Cried beside the way.

The king rode, and was angry,

Black was his brow and pale,

To rule in a land of heather

And lack the Heather Ale.

It fortuned that his vassals,

Riding free on the heath,

Came on a stone that was fallen

And vermin hid beneath.

Rudely plucked from their hiding,

Never a word they spoke:

A son and his aged father —

Last of the dwarfish folk.

The king sat high on his charger,

He looked on the little men;

And the dwarfish and swarthy couple

Looked at the king again.

Down by the shore he had them;

And there on the giddy brink —

"I will give you life, ye vermin,

For the secret of the drink."

There stood the son and father

And they looked high and low;

The heather was red around them,

The sea rumbled below.

And up and spoke the father,

Shrill was his voice to hear:

"I have a word in private,

A word for the royal ear.

"Life is dear to the aged,

And honour a little thing;

I would gladly sell the secret,"

Quoth the Piet to the King.

His voice was small as a sparrow's,

And shrill and wonderful clear:

"I would gladly sell my secret,

Only my son I fear.

"For life is a little matter,

And death is nought to the young;

And I dare not sell my honour

Under the eye of my son.

Take HIM, О king, and bind him,

And cast him far in the deep;

And it's I will tell the secret

That I have sworn to keep."

They took the son and bound him,

Neck and heels in a thong,

And a lad took him and swung him,

And flung him far and strong,

And the sea swallowed his body,

Like that of a child of ten; —

And there on the cliff stood the father,

Last of the dwarfish men.

"True was the word I told you:

Only my son I feared;

For I doubt the sapling courage

That goes without the beard.

But now in vain is the torture,

Fire shall never avail:

Here dies in my bosom

The secret of Heather Ale."