When he was done all kept silence till they should know whether the lord should praise the song or blame; and he said naught for a good while, but sat as if pondering: but at last he spake: "Thou art young, and would that we were young also! Thy song is sweet, and it pleaseth me, who am a man of war, and have seen enough and to spare of rough work, and would any day rather see a fair woman than a band of spears. But it shall please my lady wife less: for of love, and fair women, and their lovers she hath seen enough; but of war nothing save its shows and pomps; wherefore she desireth to hear thereof. Now sing of battle!" Ralph thought awhile and began to smite the harp while he conned over a song which he had learned one yule-tide from a chieftain who had come to Upmeads from the far-away Northland, and had abided there till spring was waning into summer, and meanwhile he taught Ralph this song and many things else, and his name was Sir Karr Wood-neb. This song now Ralph sang loud and sweet, though he were now a thrall in an alien land: Leave we the cup! For the moon is up, And bright is the gleam Of the rippling stream, That runneth his road To the old abode, Where the walls are white In the moon and the night; The house of the neighbour that drave us away When strife ended labour amidst of the hay, And no road for our riding was left us but one Where the hill's brow is hiding that earth's ways are done, And the sound of the billows comes up at the last Like the wind in the willows ere autumn is past. But oft and again Comes the ship from the main, And we came once more And no lading we bore But the point and the edge, And the ironed ledge, And the bolt and the bow, And the bane of the foe. To the House 'neath the mountain we came in the morn, Where welleth the fountain up over the corn, And the stream is a-running fast on to the House Of the neighbours uncunning who quake at the mouse, As their slumber is broken; they know not for why; Since yestreen was not token on earth or in sky. Come, up, then up! Leave board and cup, And follow the gleam Of the glittering stream That leadeth the road To the old abode, High-walled and white In the moon and the night; Where low lies the neighbour that drave us away Sleep-sunk from his labour amidst of the hay. No road for our riding is left us save one, Where the hills' brow is hiding the city undone, And the wind in the willows is with us at last, And the house of the billows is done and o'er-past.