Shake the wet off on the upland road;
My taberd has grown a heavy load.
What matter? up and down hill after hill;
Dead grey night for five hours still.
The hill-road droppeth lower again,
Lower, down to the poplar plain.
No furlong farther for us to-night,
The Little Tower draweth in sight;
They are ringing the bells, and the torches glare,
Therefore the roofs of wet slate stare.
There she stands, and her yellow hair slantingly
Drifts the same way that the rain goes by.
Who will be faithful to us to-day,
With little but hard glaive-strokes for pay?
The grim king fumes at the council-board;
"Three more days, and then the sword;
Three more days, and my sword through his head;
And above his white brows, pale and dead,
A paper crown on the top of the spire;
And for her the stake and the witches' fire."
Therefore though it be long ere day,
Take axe and pick and spade, I pray.
Break the dams down all over the plain:
God send us three more days such rain:
