The Vagabond and Other Poems from Punch by R. C. Lehmann
page 42 of 84 (50%)
page 42 of 84 (50%)
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Then they set to work at their swords and spears--
Such a polishing hadn't been seen for years. They made the tips of their arrows sharp, Re-strung and burnished the Chief Bard's harp, Dragged out the traditional dragon-bag, Sewed up the rents in the tribal flag; And all in the midst of the talk and racket Each wife was making her man a packet-- A hunch of bread and a wedge of cheese And a nubble of beef, and, to moisten these, A flask of her home-brewed, not too thin, As a driving force for his javelin When the moment arrived to spill The blood of the terror Hatched out in error Who had perched his length on the gorse-clad summit, the summit of Winter Hill. The night had taken her feast of stars, and the sun shot up in flame, When "Now for the dragon! Who hunts the dragon?" The call from the watchers came; And, shaking the mists of sleep away, The men stepped into the light of day, Twice two hundred in loose array; With a good round dozen of bards to lead them And their wives all waving their hands to speed them, While the Chief Bard, fixed in his chair of state, With his harp and his wreath looked most sedate. It wasn't his place to fight or tramp; |
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