lk of the
two sides were all ranged each in a line on their own shore of the
river, they sang these staves from side to side across the Sundering
Flood, the Westdalers beginning, and then the Eastdalers taking it up:

Tis Summer and night,
Little dusk and long light,
Little loss and much gain
When the day must needs wane,
Little bitter, much sweet
From the weed to the wheat;
Little moan, mickle praise
Of the Midsummer days,
When the love of the sleeping sun lieth along
And broodeth the acres abiding the song.

Were the spring to come o'er
And again as before,
What then would ye crave
From the summer to have?
Sweeter grass would ye pray,
And more lea-lading hay?
For more wheat would ye cry,
Thicker swathe of the rye?
Stouter sons would ye ask for, and daughters more dear?
Well-willers more trusty than them ye have here?

O the wheat is yet green
But full fair beseen,
And the rye groweth tall
By the turfen wall.
Thick and sweet was the hay
On the lealand that lay;
Dear daughters had we,
Sons goodly to see,
And of all the well-willers ere trusted for true
The least have ye failed us to deal and to do.

What then is this,
That the summer's bliss
Somewhat ye fail
In your treasure's tale?
What then have ye lost,
And what call ye the cost
Of the months of life
Since winter's strife?
For unseldom the summer sun curseth the Dale
With the tears thrust aback and the unuttered wail.

Forsooth o'er-well
The tale may we tell:
Tis the spear and the sword
And the House of the Sward.
The bright and the best
Have gone to their rest,
And our eyes are blind
Their eyes to find.
In mead and house wend we because they were stayed,
And we stand up because in the earth they were laid.

Would ye call them aback
Then, to look on your lack?

Nay, we would that their tale
From our hearts ne'er should fail.

This then maketh you sad,
That such dear death they had?

This night are we sad
For the joy that we had,
And their memory's beginning
Great grief would be winning.
But while weareth away,
And e'en woe waxeth gay.
In fair words is it told,
Weighed e'en as fine gold;
Sweet as wind of the south
Grows the speech in the mouth.
And from father to son speeds the tale of