Page:Once a Week June to Dec 1863.pdf/513

 . 24, 1863.]  Ere that morrow much before ye Must be borne and must be done, Then hurrah! stout hearts and sinews, If ye’d live to see the sun.

If there’s much to bear we’ll bear it, To be done, that much we’ll do; Then hurrah! the raven’s plumage Is not lightly wetted through.

On the shrine of good Saint Teilo Brightly breaks the morning sun, And fair Taff’s exulting waters Down to Hafren blithely run. Quivering drops are thickly sprinkled Diamond-like on roof and tree, Studding the Cathedral mouldings With rich gems of purity.

From the portals comes the Bishop, With his crosier in his hand, And attendant priests around him, And shorn monks a goodly band;

For a sacred progress marshalled, All amongst his flock to go, Carrying comfort to the troubled, Warning guilt, and soothing woe.

Towards the cottage and the castle Go they forth with words of peace, That contentions may grow weaker, Envy die, and hatred cease.

What, though still the swooping Pagan Dares about the coasts to skim, Look we to our Holy Father, Trust we to the saints and him.

But what’s this? these frightened peasants Rushing through the marsh and wood, And that sable flag, their terror? ’Tis the Raven and her brood.

Ho! the Dane, the Dane’s upon us! Good St. Joseph, be our aid; Holy Virgin! these are they who Fear no man, and spare no maid.

From the plough-horse cut the traces, And ride hill-wards as ye may; Women, leave your kine and dairies; Children, ’tis no time to play.

Let the bread burn in the oven, Let the seed rot on the land; Life’s worth more than cakes or barley, Not more safe with yonder band.

Pale-faced monks in wild confusion Round the sacred symbol cling, Calling for their saints by hundreds, And what succour saints might bring.

But stout-hearted stood the Bishop, Quailed not when the Danish band, Circling round, with brandished weapons Threatening pointed towards the strand.

On the shore stood blue-eyed Hacho, Leader of the Danes was he, And around him grimly wondering Grouped his savage soldiery:

Wondering at the glittering vestments, Worked with strange devices o’er, At the shaven monks so shining, At the banners bright they bore:

Doubting if, as warlike symbols, These before their host were borne, Doubting if, in furious grapple, Best be shaggy or be shorn:

Wondering at each cross and crosier, And if these were weapons good, And, not least amongst them, Hacho Still a good while wondering stood.

Plain it was he little reckoned On the capture they had made; Crosiers, cowls, and priestly vestments Seemed not staple of his trade:

For he shouted to old Sidroc, “What are these you bring to me? No such birds on Northern mountain, No such fish in Northern sea.

Saw ye not some strong-armed workers? Saw ye not some ladies fair? Little worth is all this rabble, Men in gowns who grow no hair:hair.” [sic]

Nay,” cried Sidroc, “hold to ransom Him with crook and cloven crest; Glossy plumes like his are only Grown on plump and fatted breast.” 

 Ten good pounds then let them pay me, And at once I let them go.” To the Bishop they interpret, And his cheeks are all a-glow:

Whence hath sprung this wretched heathen? What dark land his host hath reared? Little knows he what’s around us, To be loved, and to be feared.

Little knows he on his conscience How great sin henceforth is brought; He must deem us paltry traders, Peasants, villeins, things of nought.

Rates he thus a holy Bishop? Let the Pagan set us free, And with twice ten pounds for ransom, Sail he hence, content are we.

Nay more, if he’ll leave us quickly, And will spell six paters through, When a day’s sail lies between us, We will add our blessing too.”

Pondering then awhile stood Hacho, Calm his eye, and slow his words: Blessings do not feed my ravens, Blessings seldom sharpen swords.

Loth am I too low to rate him, Little know I cross or crown; But, since ’tis my turn to double, Forty pounds he lays me down.

Forty pounds be now the ransom, Or, if still too low we stand, Tis for him to double doubling, Not for us to hold his hand.

If he fail, by Thor’s red hammer, When just half this night is done, In mid-channel will I pitch them, Every sainted mother’s son.