The Burghers' Battle.

Thick rise the spear-shafts o'er the land     That erst the harvest bore;     The sword is heavy in the hand,     And we return no more.     The light wind waves the Ruddy Fox,     Our banner of the war,     And ripples in the Running Ox,     And we return no more.     Across our stubble acres now     The teams go four and four;     But out-worn elders guide the plough,     And we return no more.     And now the women heavy-eyed     Turn through the open door     From gazing down the highway wide,     Where we return no more.     The shadows of the fruited close     Dapple the feast-hall floor;     There lie our dogs and dream and doze,     And we return no more.     Down from the minster tower to-day     Fall the soft chimes of yore     Amidst the chattering jackdaws' play:     And we return no more.     But underneath the streets are still;     Noon, and the market's o'er!     Back go the goodwives o'er the hill;     For we return no more.     What merchant to our gates shall come?     What wise man bring us lore?     What abbot ride away to Rome,     Now we return no more?     What mayor shall rule the hall we built?     Whose scarlet sweep the floor?     What judge shall doom the robber's guilt,     Now we return no more?     New houses in the streets shall rise     Where builded we before,     Of other stone wrought otherwise;     For we return no more.     And crops shall cover field and hill     Unlike what once they bore,     And all be done without our will,     Now we return no more.     Look up! the arrows streak the sky,     The horns of battle roar;     The long spears lower and draw nigh,     And we return no more.     Remember how beside the wain,     We spoke the word of war,     And sowed this harvest of the plain,     And we return no more.     Lay spears about the Ruddy Fox!     The days of old are o'er;     Heave sword about the Running Ox!     For we return no more.