The Other Dale

Briton, dear Briton; oh, where didst thou go?
Thy glory has gone in fields of wet snow.
No more do the larks sing in high trees;
lost is cool air in a moor swept breeze.

Briton, dear Briton; thou was robbed of sweet life;
as cold metals did pierce thy heart like a knife.
Thou slavest to know goodness, free will, and cheer,
but no longer the old ways dost thou choose to hold dear.

Briton, dear Briton; come back to my stead,
and let sweet remembrance come unto thy head.
When Arthur and Robyn and good Christian love
made lofty thy presence, below stars high above.

Briton, dear Briton; thou shalt never return,
for the world is at odds with tradition well worn;
but fear not for thy spirit shall stir in other men's hands,
and commune a while longer in faraway lands.