Ay, I know we're nobbut farmers,
mowin' gerse an' tentin' kye,
But we're proud of all we've stood for
i' yon ages that's gone by;
Proud of all the slacks we've drained,
an' proud of all the walls we've belt,
Proud to think we've bred our childer
on the ground wheer Romans dwelt.
"Niver pairt wi' Cambodunum,"
that's what father used to say;
"If thou does, thou'll coom to ruin,
beg thy breead thro' day to day."
I'll noan pairt wi' Cambodunum,
though its roof lets in the rains,
An' its walls wi' age are totterin';
Cambodunum's i' my veins.
Ivery stone about the buildin'
has bin dressed by Roman hands,
An' red blooid o' Roman sowdiers
has bin temmed(1) out on its lands.
Often, when I ploo i' springtime,
I leet on their buried hoard--
Coins an' pottery, combs an' glasses;
once I fan' a rusty sword.
Whisht! I'll tell thee what I saw here
of a moon-lit winter neet--
Ghosts o' Romans i' their war-gear,
wheelin' slow wi' silent feet;
Pale their faces, proud their bearin',
an' a strange gloor i' their een,
As they marched past an' saluted,
while th' east wind blew snell an' keen.
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