A gambler describes an odd way of settling accounts with the dead. Three gold coins are owed to them, and the speaker pays that debt not in a church, where we might expect such an offering, but in a gaming house. The poem never says who the dead are or why the debt exists, so we have to fill in that gap ourselves.
The speaker seems both guilty and defiant. Gambling becomes a kind of private ritual, a stand-in for prayer or charity. The last lines suggest that money is "foreign" to the church, as if the two worlds speak different languages and the gaming house is the only place where this payment can be made. Whether that is a real belief or a rationalization is left open.
The mood is quiet and uneasy. The short lines and bare statements feel like a confession, spoken without much explanation, with a hint of dark irony in treating a bet as a sacred duty.