Mmmppfff. Oh, me head. What? The Queen is dead? Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast.

I bore her to a mountain stream,
And many's the summer blossum,
I placed with branches soft and green,
Around her gore stained bosom.
I wept and kissed her clay cold corpse.
Then rushed o'er vale and valley.
My vengence on the foe to wreak.
While soft wind shook the barley.

Oops. Wrong bard. My bad.

(above from "Wind That Shakes the Barley")