Oh, trenchant his avenging sword!
It falls not on the rock or sward,
But on the mail of Saxon foe:
Swift as the lightning falls the blow.
I’ve seen the Bretons wield the flail,
Scattering the bearded chaff like hail:
But iron is the flail they wield
Against the churlish Saxon’s shield.
I heard the call of victory
From Michael’s Mount to Élorn fly,