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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.
What tale do ye bear of the people uncraven, Where amidst the long hall-shadow sparkle the spears; Where aloft on the hall-ridge now flappeth the raven, And singeth the song of the nourishing years?
Turn on thy path, O fair-foot maiden, And come our ways by the pathless road; Look how the clouds hang low and laden Over the walls of the old abode! She singeth. Bare are my feet for the rough waste's wending, Wild is the wind, and my kirtle's thin; Faint shall I be ere the long way's ending Drops down to the Dale and the grief therein. He singeth.
Then she drew near the fire an old-fashioned couch that was in the cottage, and making me lie down upon it, sat at my feet, and began to sing. Amazing store of old ballads rippled from her lips, over the pebbles of ancient tunes; and the voice that sang was sweet as the voice of a tuneful maiden that singeth ever from very fulness of song.
No weapon, no treasure of earth doth he bear, No gift for the pleasure of Godhome to share; But life his hand bringeth, well cherished, most sweet; And hark! the Hall singeth the Folk-wolf to greet! "As the rain of May On earth's happiest day, So the fair flowers fall On the sun-bright Hall As the Gods rise up With the greeting-cup, And the welcoming crowd Falls to murmur aloud.
So he lifted up his voice and sang: "Rideth lovely along The strong by the strong; Soft under his breath Singeth sword in the sheath, And shield babbleth oft Unto helm-crest aloft; How soon shall their words rise mid wrath of the battle Into wrangle unheeded of clanging and rattle, And no man shall note then the gold on the sword When the runes have no meaning, the mouth-cry no word, When all mingled together, the war-sea of men Shall toss up the steel-spray round fourscore and ten.
Do on the brogues of the wild-wood rover, Do on the byrnies' ring-close mail; Take thou the staff that the barbs hang over, O'er the wind and the waste and the way to prevail. Come, for how from thee shall I sunder? Come, that a tale may arise in the land; Come, that the night may be held for a wonder, When the Wolf was led by a maiden's hand! She singeth.
The air is cool, and it darkens, And calmly flows the Rhine; The mountain peaks are sparkling In the sunny evening-shine. And yonder sits a maiden, The fairest of the fair; With gold is her garment glittering, And she combs her golden hair. With a golden comb she combs it, And a wild song singeth she, That melts the heart with a wondrous And powerful melody.
'Tis bright yellow of plumage, and singeth all one as a lark: they do call his name canary." "Nay, forsooth, I never see aught that should do me a pleasure!" said Mistress Winter crustily. "Gossip Flint might have told me so much. Take that, thou lither hussy! I'll learn thee to let fall the knives!"
"Some say that e'en against that season cornea In which our Saviour's birth is celebrated, The bird of dawning singeth all night long." Thus wrote Shakespeare of bold chanticleer; and perhaps the rooks when they are grieving for their lost ones, hold solemn requiem until the morning light and the cheering rays of the sun make them forget their woes.
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