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The Roots of the Mountains: Wherein Is Told Somewhat of the Lives of the Men of Burgdale, Their Friends, Their Neighbours, Their Foemen, and Their Fellows in Arms — John Shaqi

The Roots of the Mountains: Wherein Is Told Somewhat of the Lives of the Men of Burgdale, Their Friends, Their Neighbours, Their Foemen, and Their Fellows in ArmsMorris, William

Science

The Roots of the Mountains: Wherein Is Told Somewhat of the Lives of the Men of Burgdale, Their Friends, Their Neighbours, Their Foemen, and Their Fellows in Arms

Name: The Roots of the Mountains: Wherein Is Told Somewhat of the Lives of the Men of Burgdale, Their Friends, Their Neighbours, Their Foemen, and Their Fellows in Arms
Author: Morris, William

Morris, William

Fantasy fiction

Then arose Wood-wont and went to his shut-bed and groped therein, and
took from out of it a fiddle in its case; and he opened the case and drew
from it a very goodly fiddle, and he stood on the floor amidst of the
hall and Bow-may his cousin with him; and he laid his bow on the fiddle
and woke up song in it, and when it was well awake she fell a-singing,
and he to answering her song, and at the last all they of the house sang
together; and this is the meaning of the words which they sang:

                              _She singeth_.

   Now is the rain upon the day,
      And every water’s wide;
   Why busk ye then to wear the way,
      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?

                              _He singeth_.

   O women, when we wend our ways
      To deal with death and dread,
   The Banner of our Fathers’ Days
      Must flap the wind o’erhead.

                              _She singeth_.

   Ah, for the maidens that ye leave!
      Who now shall save the hay?
   What grooms shall kiss our lips at eve,
      When June hath mastered May?

                              _He singeth_.

   The wheat is won, the seed is sown,
      Here toileth many a maid,
   And ere the hay knee-deep hath grown
      Your grooms the grass shall wade.

                        _They sing all together_.

   Then fair befall the mountain-side
      Whereon the play shall be!
   And fair befall the summer-tide
      That whoso lives shall see.

Face-of-god thought the song goodly, but to the others it was well known.
Then said Wood-father:

‘O foster-son, thy foster-brother hath sung well for a wood abider; but
we are deeming that his singing shall be but as a starling to a throstle
matched against thy new-come guest.  Therefore, Dalesman, sing us a song
of the Dale, and if ye will, let it be of gardens and pleasant houses of
stone, and fair damsels therein, and swains with them who toil not
over-much for a scant livelihood, as do they of the waste, whose heads
may not be seen in the Holy Places.’

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

The Roots of the Mountains: Wherein Is Told Somewhat of the Lives of the Men of Burgdale, Their Friends, Their Neighbours, Their Foemen, and Their Fellows in Arms

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