XII
The tall son of the Seven Winds
Galloped hot-foot from the Hither Hithe.
So strongly went he down the press,
Almost he did that day redress
With his holping and his hardiness,
For his sword was like a scythe
In Arques when the grass is high,
And all the swaithes in order lie,
And there’s the bailiff standing by—
A gathering of the tithe.