Here afoot fares our joyance, whatever men hindred,
Through all wrath of the heavens, all storms of the earth.
O true, we have left here a part of our treasure,
The ashes of stout ones, the stems of the shield;
But the bold lives they spended have sown us new pleasure,
Fair tales for the telling in fold and on field.
For as oft as we sing of their edges' upheaving,
When the yellowing windows shine forth o'er the night,
Their names unforgotten with song interweaving
Shall draw forth dear drops from the depths of delight.
Or when down by our feet the grey sickles are lying,
And behind us is curling the supper-tide smoke,
No whit shall they grudge us the joyance undying,
Remembrance of men that put from us the yoke.
When the huddle of ewes from the fells we have driven,
And we see down the Dale the grey reach of the roof,
We shall tell of the gift in the battle-joy given,
All the fierceness of friends that drave sorrow aloof.
Once then we lamented, and mourned them departed;
Once only, no oftener. Henceforth shall we fling
Their names up aloft, when the merriest hearted
To the Fathers unseen of our life-days we sing.
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