Where night-winds ever fan a fiery crest,
And dawn's light breaks on bright, embattled spears:
A land whose barren hills are helmed with towers;
A lone, grey land of battle-wasted shires;
A land of blackened barns and empty byres;
A land of rock-bound holds and robber-hordes,
Of slumberous noons and wakeful midnight hours,
Of ambushed dark and moonlight flashing swords.
With hand on hilt and ever-kindling eyes,
Flushed face and quivering nostril, Philip rode;