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.
She singeth.
Ah, for the maidens that ye leave!
Who now shall save the hay?
What grooms shall kiss our lips at eve,
When June hath mastered May?
He singeth.
The wheat is won, the seed is sown,
Here toileth many a maid,
And ere the hay knee-deep hath grown
Your grooms the grass shall wade.
They sing all together.
Then fair befall the mountain-side
Whereon the play shall be!
And fair befall the summer-tide
That whoso lives shall see.
Face-of-god thought the song goodly, but to the others it was well
known. Then said Wood-father:
'O foster-son, thy foster-brother hath sung well for a wood abider;
but we are deeming that his singing shall be but as a starling to a
throstle matched against thy new-come guest.
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