The Eighth Son of Seven

The first son is heir to the seventh son’s throne
Barren and black though it be
The second to all that is gardened and grown
Though half of it’s washed out to sea
The third son receives a wonderful wife
Though she’s fifty years older than he
The fourth, perhaps, to a tedious life
As a merchant, or maker of keys
The fifth joins the army, an officer born
And he might win a medal or three
The sixth son often is treated with scorn
For nothing he does comes free
The seventh has magical seeds to be sown
And wonderful sights to see
But the eighth is neither remembered nor known
A horrible thing to be.


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