When the warriors went he stayed in camp;
But still from his chair he harped them on
Till the very last of the host had gone,
Then he yawned and solemnly shook his head
And, leaving his seat, returned to bed,
To sleep, as a good man will
Who, braving malice and tittle-tattle,
Has checked his natural lust for battle,
And sent the rest to the gorse-clad summit,
the summit of Winter Hill.

III

Marching at ease in the cheerful air, on duty and daring bent,
In quest of the dragon,
The fateful dragon,
The fierce four hundred went:
Over the hills and through the plain,
And up the slopes of the hills again.
The sleek rooks, washed in the morning's dew,
Rose at their coming and flapped and flew
In a black procession athwart the blue;
And the plovers circled about on high
With many a querulous piping cry.
And the cropping ewes and the old bell-wether
Looked up in terror and pushed together;
And still with a grim unbroken pace
The men moved on to their battle-place.
Softly, silently, all tip-toeing,
With their lips drawn tight and their eyes all glowing,