Mistletoe killing an oak-- Rats gnawing cables in two-- Moths making holes in a cloak-- How they must love what they do! Yes--and we Little Folk too, We are busy as they-- Working our works out of view-- Watch, and you'll see it some day!
No indeed! We are not strong, But we know Peoples that are. Yes, and we'll guide them along, To smash and destroy you in War! We shall be slaves just the same? Yes, we have always been slaves, But you--you will die of the shame, And then we shall dance on your graves!
The Stranger within my gate, He may be true or kind. But he does not talk my talk-- I cannot feel his mind. I see the face and the eyes and the mouth, But not the soul behind.
The men of my own stock They may do ill or well, But they tell the lies I am wonted to, They are used to the lies I tell. We do not need interpreters When we go to buy and sell.
The Stranger within my gates, He may be evil or good, But I cannot tell what powers control-- What reasons sway his mood; Nor when the Gods of his far-off land May repossess his blood.
The men of my own stock, Bitter bad they may be, But, at least, they hear the things I hear, And see the things I see; And whatever I think of them and their likes They think of the likes of me.
This was my father's belief And this is also mine: Let the corn be all one sheaf-- And the grapes be all one vine, Ere our children's teeth are set on edge By bitter bread and wine.
(Marching Song of a Roman Legion of the Later Empire)
When I left home for Lalage's sake By the Legions' road to Rimini, She vowed her heart was mine to take With me and my shield to Rimini-- (Till the Eagles flew from Rimini!) And I've tramped Britain, and I've tramped Gaul, And the Pontic shore where the snow-flakes fall As white as the neck of Lalage-- (As cold as the heart of Lalage!) And I've lost Britain, and I've lost Gaul, And I've lost Rome, and worst of all, I've lost Lalage!
When you go by the Via Aurelia, As thousands have travelled before, Remember the Luck of the Soldier Who never saw Rome any more! Oh dear was the sweetheart that kissed him And dear was the mother that bore, But his shield was picked up in the heather, And he never saw Rome any more!
When you go by the Via Aurelia That runs from the City to Gaul, Remember the Luck of the Soldier Who rose to be master of all! He carried the sword and the buckler, He mounted his guard on the Wall, Till the Legions elected him Cæsar, And he rose to be master of all!