The Roots of the Mountains / Wherein Is Told Somewhat of the Lives of the Men of Burgdale, Their Friends, Their Neighbours, Their Foemen, and Their Fellows in Arms

by William Morris

He singeth.

Our kine are on the eyot still,
The eddies lap them round;
All dykes the wind-worn waters fill,
And waneth grass and ground.

She singeth.

O ride ye to the river’s brim
In war-weed fair to see?
Or winter waters will ye swim
In hauberks to the knee?

He singeth.

Wild is the day, and dim with rain,
Our sheep are warded ill;
The wood-wolves gather for the plain,
Their ravening maws to fill.

She singeth.

Nay, what is this, and what have ye,
A hunter’s band, to bear
The Banner of our Battle-glee
The skulking wolves to scare?

He singeth.

O women, when we wend our ways
To deal with death and dread,
The Banner of our Fathers’ Days
Must flap the wind o’erhead.