Excerpt from Grey Weather: Moorland Tales of My Own People

Cold blows the drift on the bill,

Sere is the heather,

High goes the wind and shrill,

Mirk is the weather.

Stout be the front I show,

Come what the gods send!

Plaided and girt I go

Forth to the world's end.

My brain is the stithy of years,

My heart the red gold

Which the gods with sharp anguish and tears

Have wrought from of old.

In the shining first dawn o' the world

I was old as the sky, -

The morning dew on the field

Is no younger than I.

I am the magician of life,

The hero of runes;

The sorrows of eld and old strife

Ring clear in my tunes.

The sea lends her minstrel voice,

The storm-cloud its grey;

And ladies have wept at my notes,

Fair ladies and gay.

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