Doth ye know of combat and brawl
As nothing much but to the peasant's own like?
And doth ye retrieve the heads that shall fall
Mistify your bearance through sword and through spike?
And though this language speaketh she
Though merrily she walks Sundays to the pond
To wash her bloody hands, though her soul still be
Sure in the mind the rebels hold her fond
Doth ye know of tempests and floods
As nothing more but the weather's own will?
Furnish the graves with our rusty rosebuds
And drag us by the hands, if we matter still.
And though these words are music to your ears
Far from insight, or of philosophical blank dwell
You wish we brought our fiddles and your friends the cheers
This chant is ours, beware, we know it well.
