Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/92

 So sings the Death-seeker, while nearer and nearer The fleet of the Northmen bears down to the shore.

Green lie those thickly-timbered shores Fair sloping to the sea; They're cumbered with the harvest stores That wave but for the free: Our sickle is the gleaming sword, Our garner the broad shield Let peasants sow, but still he's lord Who's master of the field; Let them come on, the bastard-born, Each soil-stain'd churle!—alack! What gain they but a splitten skull, A sod for their base back? They sow for us these goodly lands, We reap them in our might, Scorning all title but the brands That triumph in the fight!" It was thus the land-winners of old gained their glory, And grey stonesvoiced their praise in the bays of far isles.