And whither will ye ride?

He singeth.

Our kine are on the eyot still,
The eddies lap them round;
All dykes the wind-worn waters fill,
And waneth grass and ground.

She singeth.

O ride ye to the river's brim
In war-weed fair to see?
Or winter waters will ye swim
In hauberks to the knee?

He singeth.

Wild is the day, and dim with rain,
Our sheep are warded ill;
The wood-wolves gather for the plain,
Their ravening maws to fill.

She singeth.

Nay, what is this, and what have ye,
A hunter's band, to bear
The Banner of our Battle-glee
The skulking wolves to scare?