Now dead lies the yeoman unwept and unknown
On the field he hath furrowed, the ridge he hath sown:
And all in the middle of wethers and neat
The maidens are driven with blood on their feet;
For yet 'twixt the Burg-gate and battle half-won
The dust-driven highway creeps uphill and on,
And the smoke of the beacons goes coiling aloft,
While the gathering horn bloweth loud, louder and oft.
Throw wide the gates
For nought night waits;
Though the chase is dead
The moon's o'erhead
And we need the clear
Our spoil to share.
Shake the lots in the helm then for brethren are we,
And the goods of my missing are gainful to thee.
Lo! thine are the wethers, and his are the kine;
And the colts of the marshland unbroken are thine,
With the dapple-grey stallion that trampled his groom;
And Giles hath the gold-blossomed rose of the loom.
Lo! leaps out the last lot and nought have I won,
But the maiden unmerry, by battle undone.
Even as her song ended came one of those fair yellow-gowned damsels round
the corner of the street, bearing in her hand a light basket full of flowers:
and she lifted up her head and beheld Ralph there; then she went slowly
and dropped her eyelids, and it was pleasant to Ralph to behold her;
for she was as fair as need be. Her corn-coloured gown was dainty and thin,
and but for its silver embroidery had hidden her limbs but little;
the rosiness of her ancles showed amidst her white sandal-thongs, and there
were silver rings and gold on her arms along with the iron ring.
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