ST. ANDREWThe Men of Sussex crying after him

ST. ANDREWThe Men of Sussex crying after him

Andrew, what of the North?In November shadows drearWe have heard thee marching forthWith songs of a glad new year.Thou goest to mountains high,To Picts in a Northern fen—But, Andrew, tarry and hear the cryOf the little Southern Men.Down by the seas of Gaul,Where the Roman eagles stand,Anderida they callOur shaggy forest land.We have no saving health,To us no Word comes forth,On us the gods bestow no wealth—Yet Andrew goes to the North.Oh, stay and give us grace,For our hearts are grey with dule,As each man lifts his faceIn the dreadful days of Yule,When the burning Wheel stands stillIn the black and dropping skies,And the Long Man screams upon the hillWith the human sacrifice.Andrew, what of the North?Our Druids tell sad tales,Our arms have lost their worthIn the scrubby hills of Wales;But thy mighty banners goForward and pass us by,As the Northern streamers fly and flowOn the red wings of the sky.We hear strange tales of thee—We hear thou preachest stillA Man more fair than Bald, a TreeMore tall than Ygdrasyl,A Bread more strong than meat,Water more fierce than wine—Than the mead which drunken gods find sweetIn the halls where Heroes dine....To the little Southern MenSaint Andrew answered he:“I have heard from the Northern fenYour moan from the Gaulish sea;And though I pass you by,And may not see your face,Yet my Lord hath heard your cry,And He sends you hope of grace.“Three saints shall teach the landThat lies by the Southern sea;Three saints on your shores shall stand—A thrice-noble company.The Word that heals and saves,Which to the Scots I send,Wilfred shall teach by the wavesThat beat on Manhood’s End.“On Havant’s drawling tide,Which round the island swells,The solemn ships shall glideTo the chime of Richard’s bells:On Mayfield’s hills the ironOf Dunstan’s anvil ringsAs he hammers gates for ZionAnd fights Unholy Things.“So faint not—all is well,And the price of hope is paidBy the Lord Who hath harrowed hell,And hath made the gods afraid.Eternity keeps the hoursTill the Sussex Saints go forth—Wilfred and Richard and Dunstan are yours,But Andrew goes to the North.”

Andrew, what of the North?In November shadows drearWe have heard thee marching forthWith songs of a glad new year.Thou goest to mountains high,To Picts in a Northern fen—But, Andrew, tarry and hear the cryOf the little Southern Men.Down by the seas of Gaul,Where the Roman eagles stand,Anderida they callOur shaggy forest land.We have no saving health,To us no Word comes forth,On us the gods bestow no wealth—Yet Andrew goes to the North.Oh, stay and give us grace,For our hearts are grey with dule,As each man lifts his faceIn the dreadful days of Yule,When the burning Wheel stands stillIn the black and dropping skies,And the Long Man screams upon the hillWith the human sacrifice.Andrew, what of the North?Our Druids tell sad tales,Our arms have lost their worthIn the scrubby hills of Wales;But thy mighty banners goForward and pass us by,As the Northern streamers fly and flowOn the red wings of the sky.We hear strange tales of thee—We hear thou preachest stillA Man more fair than Bald, a TreeMore tall than Ygdrasyl,A Bread more strong than meat,Water more fierce than wine—Than the mead which drunken gods find sweetIn the halls where Heroes dine....To the little Southern MenSaint Andrew answered he:“I have heard from the Northern fenYour moan from the Gaulish sea;And though I pass you by,And may not see your face,Yet my Lord hath heard your cry,And He sends you hope of grace.“Three saints shall teach the landThat lies by the Southern sea;Three saints on your shores shall stand—A thrice-noble company.The Word that heals and saves,Which to the Scots I send,Wilfred shall teach by the wavesThat beat on Manhood’s End.“On Havant’s drawling tide,Which round the island swells,The solemn ships shall glideTo the chime of Richard’s bells:On Mayfield’s hills the ironOf Dunstan’s anvil ringsAs he hammers gates for ZionAnd fights Unholy Things.“So faint not—all is well,And the price of hope is paidBy the Lord Who hath harrowed hell,And hath made the gods afraid.Eternity keeps the hoursTill the Sussex Saints go forth—Wilfred and Richard and Dunstan are yours,But Andrew goes to the North.”

Andrew, what of the North?In November shadows drearWe have heard thee marching forthWith songs of a glad new year.Thou goest to mountains high,To Picts in a Northern fen—But, Andrew, tarry and hear the cryOf the little Southern Men.

Andrew, what of the North?

In November shadows drear

We have heard thee marching forth

With songs of a glad new year.

Thou goest to mountains high,

To Picts in a Northern fen—

But, Andrew, tarry and hear the cry

Of the little Southern Men.

Down by the seas of Gaul,Where the Roman eagles stand,Anderida they callOur shaggy forest land.We have no saving health,To us no Word comes forth,On us the gods bestow no wealth—Yet Andrew goes to the North.

Down by the seas of Gaul,

Where the Roman eagles stand,

Anderida they call

Our shaggy forest land.

We have no saving health,

To us no Word comes forth,

On us the gods bestow no wealth—

Yet Andrew goes to the North.

Oh, stay and give us grace,For our hearts are grey with dule,As each man lifts his faceIn the dreadful days of Yule,When the burning Wheel stands stillIn the black and dropping skies,And the Long Man screams upon the hillWith the human sacrifice.

Oh, stay and give us grace,

For our hearts are grey with dule,

As each man lifts his face

In the dreadful days of Yule,

When the burning Wheel stands still

In the black and dropping skies,

And the Long Man screams upon the hill

With the human sacrifice.

Andrew, what of the North?Our Druids tell sad tales,Our arms have lost their worthIn the scrubby hills of Wales;But thy mighty banners goForward and pass us by,As the Northern streamers fly and flowOn the red wings of the sky.

Andrew, what of the North?

Our Druids tell sad tales,

Our arms have lost their worth

In the scrubby hills of Wales;

But thy mighty banners go

Forward and pass us by,

As the Northern streamers fly and flow

On the red wings of the sky.

We hear strange tales of thee—We hear thou preachest stillA Man more fair than Bald, a TreeMore tall than Ygdrasyl,A Bread more strong than meat,Water more fierce than wine—Than the mead which drunken gods find sweetIn the halls where Heroes dine....

We hear strange tales of thee—

We hear thou preachest still

A Man more fair than Bald, a Tree

More tall than Ygdrasyl,

A Bread more strong than meat,

Water more fierce than wine—

Than the mead which drunken gods find sweet

In the halls where Heroes dine....

To the little Southern MenSaint Andrew answered he:“I have heard from the Northern fenYour moan from the Gaulish sea;And though I pass you by,And may not see your face,Yet my Lord hath heard your cry,And He sends you hope of grace.

To the little Southern Men

Saint Andrew answered he:

“I have heard from the Northern fen

Your moan from the Gaulish sea;

And though I pass you by,

And may not see your face,

Yet my Lord hath heard your cry,

And He sends you hope of grace.

“Three saints shall teach the landThat lies by the Southern sea;Three saints on your shores shall stand—A thrice-noble company.The Word that heals and saves,Which to the Scots I send,Wilfred shall teach by the wavesThat beat on Manhood’s End.

“Three saints shall teach the land

That lies by the Southern sea;

Three saints on your shores shall stand—

A thrice-noble company.

The Word that heals and saves,

Which to the Scots I send,

Wilfred shall teach by the waves

That beat on Manhood’s End.

“On Havant’s drawling tide,Which round the island swells,The solemn ships shall glideTo the chime of Richard’s bells:On Mayfield’s hills the ironOf Dunstan’s anvil ringsAs he hammers gates for ZionAnd fights Unholy Things.

“On Havant’s drawling tide,

Which round the island swells,

The solemn ships shall glide

To the chime of Richard’s bells:

On Mayfield’s hills the iron

Of Dunstan’s anvil rings

As he hammers gates for Zion

And fights Unholy Things.

“So faint not—all is well,And the price of hope is paidBy the Lord Who hath harrowed hell,And hath made the gods afraid.Eternity keeps the hoursTill the Sussex Saints go forth—Wilfred and Richard and Dunstan are yours,But Andrew goes to the North.”

“So faint not—all is well,

And the price of hope is paid

By the Lord Who hath harrowed hell,

And hath made the gods afraid.

Eternity keeps the hours

Till the Sussex Saints go forth—

Wilfred and Richard and Dunstan are yours,

But Andrew goes to the North.”

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