Arrow In My Chest

When I consider my most likely end In this the lap of what some folk call "wealth", I deem it best for heart and soul and health To hence depart, in foreign ways to wend. But if cut down by some most dire event, I deathward wander, blinded or insane, What had I then that I might call a gain, And should I then my errant days repent? No not for me the slow and graceless death Of some mad cow, some rabid froth-mouthed hound, But let me rather, though a captive bound, 'mid cannibals expend my final breath. Or with a maid nut-brown and lithe in arm, And with an arrow sticking in my chest, Let me, content and grateful, to my rest Returning, sing my latest pilgrim's psalm.