I
The men that lived in Longuevaile
Came out to fight by bands.
They jangled all in welded mail,
Their shields were rimmed of silver pale
And blazoned like a church-vitrail:
Their swords were in their hands.
But the harsh raven of the Old Gods
Was on the rank sea-sands.
There rose a wind on heath and den:
The sky went racing grey.
The Bastard and his wall of men
Were a charger’s course away.