There's mist in the hollows,
There's gold on the tree,
And South go the swallows
Away over sea.
They home in our steeple
That climbs in the wind,
And, parson and people,
We welcome 'em kind.
The steeple was set here
In 1266;
If William could get here
He'd burn it to sticks.
He'd burn it for ever,
Bells, belfry and vane,
That swallows would never
Come home there again.
He'd hang down their perches
With cannor and gun,
For churches is churches,
And William's a Hun.
So—mist in the hollow
And leaf falling brown—
Ere home comes the swallow
May William be down!
And high stand the steeples
From Lincoln to Wells,
For parsons and peoples,
For birds and for bells!