Page:Early poems of William Morris.djvu/86



Edward the prince lies underneath the ground, Edward the king is dead, at Westminster The carvers smooth the curls of his long beard. Everything goes to rack—eh! and we too. Now, Curzon, listen; if they come, these French, Whom have I got to lean on here, but you? A man can die but once, will you die then, Your brave sword in your hand, thoughts in your heart Of all the deeds we have done here in France— And yet may do? So God will have your soul, Whoever has your body.

Will fight till the last moment, until then Will do whate'er you tell me. Now I see We must e'en leave the walls; well, well, perhaps They're stronger than I think for; pity, though! For some few tons of stone, if Guesclin comes.

Farewell, John, pray you watch the Gascons well, I doubt them.

Farewell, good lump! and yet, when all is said, 'Tis a good lump. Why then, if Guesclin comes; Some dozen stones from his petrariae. And, under shelter of his crossbows, just An hour's steady work with pickaxes,