The old voice come from the hoary beard:
"Yea, whose are yonder gables then,
And whose the holy hearths of men?
Whose are the prattling children there,
And whose the sunburnt maids and fair?
Whose thralls are ye, hereby that stand,
Bearing the freeman's sword in hand?"
As glitters the sun in the rain-washed grass,
So in the tossing swords it was;
As the thunder rattles along and adown