1 When Rome was rotten-ripe to her fall, And the sceptre passed from her hand, The pestilent Picts leaped over the wall To harry the English land. 2 The little dark men of the mountain and waste, So quick to laughter and tears, They came panting with hate and haste For the loot of five hundred years. 3 They killed the trader, they sacked the shops, They ruined temple and town– They swept like wolves through the standing crops Crying that Rome was down. 4 They wiped out all that they could find Of beauty and strength and worth, But they could not wipe out the Viking's Wind That brings the ships from the North. 5 They could not wipe out the North-East gales Nor what those gales set free– The pirate ships with their close-reefed sails, Leaping from sea to sea. 6 They had forgotten the shield-hung hull Seen nearer and more plain, Dipping into the troughs like a gull, And gull-like rising again– 7 The painted eyes that glare and frown In the high snake-headed stem, Searching the beach while her sail comes down, They had forgotten them! 8 There was no Count of the Saxon Shore To meet her hand to hand, As she took the beach with a grind and a roar, And the pirates rushed inland!
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