...for my yeoman brothers and sisters
Beneath the ancient ewe, my limbs grow
strong. Ever watchful of the bayn-scurry
crow.These fields I wander know my
footfall well, for thee- I sharpen arrow and
wax my bow. With gifts of chert, and
streams to quench, this land I must
His Will be mine, my only prayer; swoop
like the hawk when set upon, and tangle
wings in fearsome clench. My lads and I
with feathered hearts, brave winds that
blow; but tumble not.
Darkened skies and chains that rattle;
forge iron limbs like ghosts we battle.
When you pass us on the street, a steady
gait and calm pervades. Calamity our lords
invent, may bend our will, but never
Just as the tide implores the moon; stay
the course! God's Will be true.
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