The fires of the Great Army That was made of iron men;Whose fires of sacrilege and scornRan around England red as morn;Fires over Glastonbury Thorn — Fires out on Ely Fen.
And as he went by White Horse Vale He saw lie wan and wideThe old horse graven, God knows when,By gods or beasts or what things thenWalked a new world instead of men, And scrawled on the hill-side.
And when he came to White Horse Down The great white horse was grey,For it was ill scoured of the weed;And lichen and thorn could crawl and feedSince the foes of settled house and creed Had swept old works away.
King Alfred gazed all sorrowful At thistle and mosses grey,Till a rally of Danes with shield and bill.Rolled drunk over the dome of the hill,And, hearing of his harp and skill, They dragged him to their play.
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