Tough to furrow, the rock-hard soil.
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!