Sling, crossbow, bludgeon, axe and spud, cilice and vials of sacred blood, On such equipment we relied. Our foes were misery and mud. Each Norman keep, each Frankish hold, each corner of the Christian fold Sent forth its sheep to sound of bells. Our prophets might have had them tolled. Prince, abbot, squire, felt the desire of bliss that swept stews, taverns, farms. Soft damosels ploughed through the mire with babe at breast and men-at-arms; And, since this journey was the price of entrance into Paradise, The gaols belched out their criminals and beggars all alive with lice. We took no food, for God is good; besides we heard that convents strewed Converted Hungary for us. We never dared mistrust His mood. Heading the mass far up the pass, that led us straight to Calvary, The preaching-man upon an ass recited magic formulæ. Soon we were joined by northern lords; no few among their folk had swords. (Walter the Pennyless his rout had gone before and died in hordes, While Gotschalk's dupes, with geese and goats upon their flags, had found the boats To pass beyond the Bosphorus, where Kilidj Arslan cut their throats.) Our force could not await the Turk, but in its ardour got to work That was not mentioned in the breves. It murdered all the Jews in Treves. And I was sad a Christian lad should march with myrmidons so mad. They made our Holy War appear too near a Musulman Jehad. We plodded on for many weeks through mazes where the Austrian ekes A bare existence on the slips of alp below the granite peaks, And all those weeks did naught betide us palmers save that many died. Our gaol-birds eyed the preaching-man, and scholars spoke of vaticide; But I was happy when our stout commander sent me on to scout. I cried for little Sunflower-tress, and made strange faces at the trout. Because I was a fighting-man I trained myself to nettle-stings, And copied oaths and made up things my tutor would have tried to scan: