The Remains of the First Crusaders by Gustave Doré

A band of soldiers, vast and ragged
March through Egyptian sands,
Their banners tattered, their steps saddened.

“Prester John, Prester John,” they cry,
“Why did so many have to die?”

Once had their hope carried them through those lands
With expectation of glory and overthrow;
Till it beckoned them with slothful commands.

“Prester John, Prester John,” they cry,
“Why did so many have to die?”

A book had told them this king would bring the final blow
To the Saracen, with armies beyond compare.
False it was; for this promise delivered only woe.

“Prester John, Prester John,” they cry,
“Why did so many have to die?”

Let it be proved then, without semblance of dare
The damage prophecy false doth bear.