Corsus, as he rode by beneath them, planted on the point of his sword his great helm of bronze plumed with green-dyed estridge-plumes and raised it high above his head in homage to the King. The sparse gray locks of his hair lifted in the breeze, and pride flamed on the heavy face of him like a November sunset. He rode a dark bay, heavily built like a bear, that stepped ponderously as weighed down by his rider’s bulk and the great weight of gear and battle-harness. His veterans marching at his heel lifted their helms on spear and sword and bill, singing their old marching song in time to the clank of their mailed feet marching down the Way of Kings:
When Corsus dwelt at Tenemos,
Beside the sea in Tenemos,
Tirra lirra lay,
The Gowles came downe to Tenemos,
They brent his house in Tenemos,
Downe derie downe day.
But Corsus carved the Gowls
The coarsest meat
They ere did ete,