large/5754/balladwhitehorse_1404_librivox_64kb_mp3/balladofthewhitehorse_05_chesterton_64kb_33
large/5754/balladwhitehorse_1404_librivox_64kb_mp3/balladofthewhitehorse_05_chesterton_64kb
English
5754
And stopping in his onward strides, He snatched a bow in scorn From some mean slave, and bent it on Colan, whose doom grew dark; and shone Stars evil over Caerleon, In the place where he was born. AND STOPPING IN HIS ONWARD STRIDES HE SNATCHED A BOW IN SCORN FROM SOME MEAN SLAVE AND BENT IT ON COLIN WHOSE DOOM GREW DARK AND SHONE STARS EVIL OVER CARLION IN THE PLACE WHERE HE WAS BORN
l as poor as thieves. No bows nor slings nor bolts they bore, But bills and pikes ill-made; And none but Colan bore a sword, And rusty was its blade. And Colan's eyes with mystery And iron laughter stirred, And he spoke aloud, but lightly Not labouring to be heard. "Oh, truly we be broken hearts, For that cause, it is said, We light our candles to that Lord That broke Himself for bread. "But though we hold but bitterly What land the Saxon leaves, Though Ireland be but a land of saints, And Wales a land of thieves, "I say you yet shall weary Of the working of your word, That stricken spirits never strike Nor lean hands hold a sword. "And if ever ye ride in Ireland, The jest may yet be said, There is the land of broken hearts, And the land of broken heads." Not less barbarian laughter Choked Harold like a flood, "And shall I fight with scarecrows That am of Guthrum's blood? "Meeting may be of war-men, Where the best war-man wins; But all this carrion a man shoots Before the fight begins.  MEN WERE ALL AS THIN AS SAINTS AND ALL AS POOR AS THIEVES NO BOWS NOR SLINGS NOR BOLTS THEY BORE BUT BILLS AND PIKES ILL MADE AND NONE BUT COLIN BORE A SWORD AND RUSTY WAS ITS BLADE AND COLIN'S EYES WITH MYSTERY AND IRON LAUGHTER STIRRED AND HE SPOKE ALOUD BUT LIGHTLY NOT LABOURING TO BE HEARD OH TRULY WE BE BROKEN HEARTS FOR WHAT CAUSE IT IS SAID WE LIGHT OUR CANDLES TO THAT LORD THAT BROKE HIMSELF FOR BREAD BUT THOUGH WE HOLD BUT BITTERLY WHAT LAND THE SAXON LEAVES THOUGH IRELAND BE A LAND OF SAINTS AND WALES A LAND OF THIEVES I SAY YOU YET SHALL WEARY OF THE WORKING OF YOUR WORD THAT STRICKEN SPIRITS NEVER STRIKE NOR LEAN HANDS HOLD A SWORD AND IF EVER YE RIDE IN IRELAND THE JEST MAY YET BE SAID THERE IS THE LAND OF BROKEN HEARTS AND THE LAND OF BROKEN HEADS NOT LESS BARBARIAN LAUGHTER CHOKED HAROLD LIKE A FLOOD AND SHALL I FIGHT WITH SCARECROWS THAT AM OF GUTHRUM'S BLOOD MEETING MAY BE OF WAR MEN WHERE THE BEST WAR MAN WINS BUT ALL THIS CARRION A MAN SHOOTS BEFORE THE FIGHT BEGINS
large/5754/balladwhitehorse_1404_librivox_64kb_mp3/balladofthewhitehorse_05_chesterton_64kb
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