But at last the Chief Bard up and spoke, "Now I swear by beech and I swear by oak, By the grass and the streams I swear," said he, "This dragon of Dickon's puzzles me. For the record stands, as well ye know, How a hundred years and a year ago We dealt the dragons a smashing blow By issuing from our magic tree A carefully-framed complete decree, Which ordered dragons to cease to be. Still, since our Dickon is passing sure That he saw a regular Simon pure. Some dragon's egg, as it seems, contrived To elude our curses, and so survived On an inaccessible rocky shelf, Where at last it managed to hatch itself. Whatever the cause, the result is plain: We're in for a dragon-fuss again. We haven't the time, and, what is worse, We haven't the means to frame a curse. So what is there left for us to say Save this, that our men at break of day Must gather and go to kill The monstrous savage Whose fire-blasts ravage The flocks and herds on the gorse-clad summit, the summit of Winter Hill?" II So the men, when they heard the Chief Bard utter the order that bade them try For the awful dragon, The dauntless dragon, They all of them shouted "Aye!" For everyone felt assured that he, Whatever the fate of the rest might be, However few of them might survive, Was certainly safe to stay alive, And was probably bound to deal the blow That would shatter the beast and lay him low, And end the days of their dragon-foe. And all the women-folk egged them on: It was "Up with your heart, and at him, John!" Or "Gurth, you'll bring me his ugly head," Or "Lance, my man, when you've struck him dead, When he hasn't a wag in his fearful tail, Carve off and bring me a blue-green scale." 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.