The Ballad of Val-Ès-Dunes

The men that lived in LonguevaileCame out to fight by bands.They jangled all in welded mail,Their shields were rimmed of silver paleAnd blazoned like a church-vitrail:Their swords were in their hands.But the harsh raven of the Old GodsWas on the rank sea-sands.

There rose a wind on heath and den:The sky went racing grey.The Bastard and his wall of menWere a charger’s course away.

The Old Gods of the Northern HallAre in their narrow room.Their thrones are flanked of spearmen tall,The three that have them in their thrall,Sit silently before them all,They weave upon their loom;And round about them as they weaveThe Scalds sing doom.

The Bastard out of NormandyWas angry for his wrong.His eyes were virginal to see,For nothing in his heart had heBut a hunger for his great degree;And his back was broad and strongAs are the oxen of the field,That pull the ploughs along.

He saw that column of cavalry wheel,Split outward, and deploy.He heard, he heard the Oliphant peal.He crooked an angry knee to feelThe scabbard against his gilded heel.He had great joy:And he stood upright in the stirrup steel.Because he was a boy.

We faced their ordering, all the force,And there was little sound;But Haribert-Le-Marshall’s horsePawed heavily the ground.

As the broad ships out of BarbaryCome driving from the large,With yards a-bend and courses free,And tumbling down their decks a-lee,The hurrahing of the exultant sea,So drave they to the charge.But the harsh raven of the Old GodsWas on the rank sea-marge.

The Old Gods of the Northern HallAre crownéd for the tomb.Their biers are flanked of torches tall,And through the flames that leap and fallThere comes a droning and a callTo the night’s womb,As the tide beneath a castle wallGoes drumming through the gloom.

They tonsured me but Easter year,I swore to Christ and Rome.My name is not mine older name....But ah! to see them as they came,With thundering and with points aflame,I smelt foam.And my heart was like a wandering man’s,Who piles his boat on Moorna sandsAnd serves a slave in alien lands,And then beneath a harper’s handsHears suddenly of home.

For their cavalry came in a curling leaf,They shouted as they drave,And the Bastard’s line was like a reefBut theirs was like a wave.

As the broad ships out of BarbaryStrike rock.And the stem shatters, and the sail flaps;Streaming seaward; and the taut shroud snaps,And the blockClatters to the deck of the wreck.So did the men of LonguevaileTake the shock.

Our long line quivered but it did not break,It countered and was strong.The first bolt went through the wind with a wail,And another and a-many with a thudding on the mail;Pattered all the arrows in an April hail;Whistled the ball and thong:And I, the priest, with that beganThe singing of my song.

The fishermen fish in the River of Seine,They haul the long nets in.They haul them in and they haul again,(The fishermen fish in the River of Seine)They haul them in and they haul again,A million glittering fin:With the hauling in of our straining endsThat Victory did begin.

The tall son of the Seven WindsGalloped hot-foot from the Hither Hithe.So strongly went he down the press,Almost he did that day redressWith his holping and his hardiness,For his sword was like a scytheIn Arques when the grass is high,And all the swaithes in order lie,And there’s the bailiff standing by--A gathering of the tithe.

And now, go forward, Normandy,Go forward all in one.The press was caught and trampled and it brokeFrom the sword and its swinger and the axe’s stroke,Pouring through the gap in a whirl of smokeAs a blinded herd will run.And so fled many and a very fewWith mounts all spent would staggering pursue,But the race fell scattered as the evening grew:The battle was over and done.

Like birds against the reddening dayThey dwindled one by one,And I heard a trumpet far awayAt the setting of the sun.

The stars were in the Eternal Sky,It was calm in Massared;Richard, Abbot of Leclair, and IAnd a Picard Priest that held on highA Torch above his head;We stumbled through the darkening landAssoiling with anointed handThe dying and the dead.

How many in the tufted grass,How many dead there lay.For there was found the FortenbrasAnd young Garain of Hault, alas!And the Wardens of the Breton passWho were lords of his array,And Hugh that trusted in his glassBut came not home the day.

I saw the miller of Martindall,I saw that archer die.The blunt quarrel caught him at the low white wall,And he tossed up his arrow to the Lord God of all,But long before the first could fallHis soul was in the sky.

The last of all the lords that sprangFrom Harcourt of the Crown,He parried with the shield and the silver rang,But the axe fell heavy on the helm with a clangAnd the girths parted and the saddle swang,And he went down:He never more sang winter songsIn his high town.

In his high town that Faëry is,And stands on Harcourt bay,The fisher surging through the nightTakes bearing by that castle height,And moors him harboured in the bight,And watches for the day.But with the broadening of the light,It vanishes away.

In his high town that Faëry is,And stands on Harcourt Lea.To summon him up his arrier-ban,His writ beyond the mountains ran;My father was his serving man,Although the farm was free.Before the angry wars beganHe was a friend to me.

The night before the boy was bornThere came a Priest who saidThat he had seen red Aldeborn,The star of hate in Taurus’ horn,Which glared above a field of corn,And covered him with dread.I wish to God I had not heldThe cloth in which he bled.

The Horse from Cleres and Valery,The foot from Yvetot,And all the men of the Harbour TownsThat live by fall and flow.And all the men of the Beechen Ford--Oh! William of Falaise, my lord!--And all the sails in Michael’s ward,And all the shields of Caux,Shall follow you out across the world,With sword and lance and bow,To Beachy and to Pevensey Bar,To Chester through the snow,With sack and pack and camping tent,A-grumbling as they go:My lord is William of Falaise.Haro!