Chapter 27 : 
The Folk-Mote By The River
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Author : William Morris

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It was up in the morn we rose betimes  
From the hall-floor hard by the row of limes.  

It was but John the Red and I,  
And we were the brethren of Gregory;  

And Gregory the Wright was one  
Of the valiant men beneath the sun,  

And what he bade us that we did  
For ne'er he kept his counsel hid.  

So out we went, and the clattering latch  
Woke up the swallows under the thatch.  

It was dark in the porch, but our scythes we felt,  
And thrust the whetstone under the belt.  

Through the cold garden boughs we went  
Where the tumbling roses shed their scent.  

Then out a-gates and away we strode  
O'er the dewy straws on the dusty road,  

And there was the mead by the town-reeve's close  
Where the hedge was sweet with the wilding rose.  

Then into the mowing grass we went  
Ere the very last of the night was spent.  

Young was the moon, and he was gone,  
So we whet our scythes by the stars alone:  

But or ever the long blades felt the hay  
Afar in the East the dawn was gray.  

Or ever we struck our earliest stroke  
The thrush in the hawthorn-bush awoke.  

While yet the bloom of the swathe was dim  
The black-bird's bill had answered him.  

Ere half of the road to the river was shorn  
The sunbeam smote the twisted thorn.  

Now wide was the way 'twixt the standing grass  
For the townsfolk unto the mote to pass,  

And so when all our work was done  
We sat to breakfast in the sun,  

While down in the stream the dragon-fly  
'Twixt the quivering rushes flickered by;  

And though our knives shone sharp and white  
The swift bleak heeded not the sight.  

So when the bread was done away  
We looked along the new-shorn hay,  

And heard the voice of the gathering-horn  
Come over the garden and the corn;  

For the wind was in the blossoming wheat  
And drave the bees in the lime-boughs sweet.  

Then loud was the horn's voice drawing near,  
And it hid the talk of the prattling weir.  

And now was the horn on the pathway wide  
That we had shorn to the river-side.  

So up we stood, and wide around  
We sheared a space by the Elders' Mound;  

And at the feet thereof it was  
That highest grew the June-tide grass;  

And over all the mound it grew  
With clover blent, and dark of hue.  

But never aught of the Elders' Hay  
To rick or barn was borne away.  

But it was bound and burned to ash  
In the barren close by the reedy plash.  

For 'neath that mound the valiant dead  
Lay hearkening words of valiance said  

When wise men stood on the Elders' Mound,  
And the swords were shining bright around.  

And now we saw the banners borne  
On the first of the way that we had shorn;  
So we laid the scythe upon the sward  
And girt us to the battle-sword.  

For after the banners well we knew  
Were the Freemen wending two and two.  

There then that high-way of the scythe  
With many a hue was brave and blythe.  

And first below the Silver Chief  
Upon the green was the golden sheaf.  

And on the next that went by it  
The White Hart in the Park did sit.  

Then on the red the White Wings flew,  
And on the White was the Cloud-fleck blue.  

Last went the Anchor of the Wrights  
Beside the Ship of the Faring-Knights.  

Then thronged the folk the June-tide field  
With naked sword and painted shield,  

Till they came adown to the river-side,  
And there by the mound did they abide.  

Now when the swords stood thick and white  
As the mace reeds stand in the streamless bight,  

There rose a man on the mound alone  
And over his head was the gray mail done.  

When over the new-shorn place of the field  
Was naught but the steel hood and the shield.  

The face on the mound shone ruddy and hale,  
But the hoar hair showed from the hoary mail.  

And there rose a hand by the ruddy face  
And shook a sword o'er the peopled place.  

And there came a voice from the mound and said:  
"O sons, the days of my youth are dead,  

And gone are the faces I have known  
In the street and the booths of the goodly town.  

O sons, full many a flock have I seen  
Feed down this water-girdled green.  

Full many a herd of long-horned neat  
Have I seen 'twixt water-side and wheat.  

Here by this water-side full oft  
Have I heaved the flowery hay aloft.  

And oft this water-side anigh  
Have I bowed adown the wheat-stalks high.  

And yet meseems I live and learn  
And lore of younglings yet must earn.  

For tell me, children, whose are these  
Fair meadows of the June's increase.  

Whose are these flocks and whose the neat,  
And whose the acres of the wheat?"  

Scarce did we hear his latest word,  
On the wide shield so rang the sword.  

So rang the sword upon the shield  
That the lark was hushed above the field.  

Then sank the shouts and again we heard  
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  
E'en so was the voice of the weaponed town.  

And there was the steel of the old man's sword,  
And there was his hollow voice, and his word:  

"Many men many minds, the old saw saith,  
Though hereof ye be sure as death.  

For what spake the herald yestermorn  
But this, that ye were thrall-folk born;  

That the lord that owneth all and some  
Would send his men to fetch us home  

Betwixt the haysel, and the tide  
When they shear the corn in the country-side?  

O children, Who was the lord? ye say,  
What prayer to him did our fathers pray.  

Did they hold out hands his gyves to bear?  
Did their knees his high hall's pavement wear?  

Is his house built up in heaven aloft?  
Doth he make the sun rise oft and oft?  

Doth he hold the rain in his hollow hand?  
Hath he cleft this water through the land?  

Or doth he stay the summer-tide,  
And make the winter days abide?  

O children, Who is the lord? ye say,  
Have we heard his name before to-day?  

O children, if his name I know,  
He hight Earl Hugh of the Shivering Low:  

For that herald bore on back and breast  
The Black Burg under the Eagle's Nest."  

As the voice of the winter wind that tears  
At the eaves of the thatch and its emptied ears,  

E'en so was the voice of laughter and scorn  
By the water-side in the mead new-shorn;  

And over the garden and the wheat  
Went the voice of women shrilly-sweet.  

But now by the hoary elder stood  
A carle in raiment red as blood.  

Red was his weed and his glaive was white,  
And there stood Gregory the Wright.  

So he spake in a voice was loud and strong:  
"Young is the day though the road is long;  

There is time if we tarry naught at all  
For the kiss in the porch and the meat in the hall.  

And safe shall our maidens sit at home  
For the foe by the way we wend must come.  

Through the three Lavers shall we go  
And raise them all against the foe.  

Then shall we wend the Downland ways,  
And all the shepherd spearmen raise.  

To Cheaping Raynes shall we come adown  
And gather the bowmen of the town;  

And Greenstead next we come unto  
Wherein are all folk good and true.  

When we come our ways to the Outer Wood  
We shall be an host both great and good;  

Yea when we come to the open field  
There shall be a many under shield.  

And maybe Earl Hugh shall lie alow  
And yet to the house of Heaven shall go.  

But we shall dwell in the land we love  
And grudge no hallow Heaven above.  

Come ye, who think the time o'er long  
Till we have slain the word of wrong!  

Come ye who deem the life of fear  
On this last day hath drawn o'er near!  

Come after me upon the road  
That leadeth to the Erne's abode."  

Down then he leaped from off the mound  
And back drew they that were around  

Till he was foremost of all those  
Betwixt the river and the close.  

And uprose shouts both glad and strong  
As followed after all the throng;  

And overhead the banners flapped,  
As we went on our ways to all that happed.  

The fields before the Shivering Low  
Of many a grief of manfolk know;  

There may the autumn acres tell  
Of how men met, and what befell.  

The Black Burg under the Eagle's nest  
Shall tell the tale as it liketh best.  

And sooth it is that the River-land  
Lacks many an autumn-gathering hand.  

And there are troth-plight maids unwed  
Shall deem awhile that love is dead;  

And babes there are to men shall grow  
Nor ever the face of their fathers know.  

And yet in the Land by the River-side  
Doth never a thrall or an earl's man bide;  

For Hugh the Earl of might and mirth  
Hath left the merry days of Earth;  

And we live on in the land we love,  
And grudge no hallow Heaven above.  


     From : Marxists.org

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     Chapter 27 -- Added : February 26, 2021

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