Tough
to furrow, the rock-hard earth.
Packed
and pressed, year after year,
By
schemers, the half-wise,
And
the unwise, after the Good Farmers
Were
slain, or driven away.
The
plough-blades break, the plough-horse stamps and neighs.
By
toil, prayer, and tears, the soil is softened.
Little
by little, a row is made;
The
good seed of old, sown once again.
The
Golden Sun, the Gentle Wind,
The
holy bones resting beneath,
Make
a little shoot rise, a tiny sprout grow.
With
sparkling water, it is bathed and blessed;
In
a safe hedge, bidden to blossom.
Back
they have come, the Good Farmers’ kin.
Back
they have brought, the fair, forgotten ways.
Happy
are those, who wish them ‘Was hal!’
Happiest
those, whose hearts they have tilled!
--
Holy
Ælfred the Great, King of England, South Patron, pray for us sinners at the Souð, unworthy though we are!
Anathema
to the Union!
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