A Shropshire Lad
'T would blow like this through holt and hanger
When Uricon the city stood:
’Tis the old wind in the old anger,
But then it threshed another wood.
When Uricon the city stood:
’Tis the old wind in the old anger,
But then it threshed another wood.
Then, 't was before my time, the Roman
At yonder heaving hill would stare:
The blood that warms an English yeoman,
The thoughts that hurt him, they were there.
At yonder heaving hill would stare:
The blood that warms an English yeoman,
The thoughts that hurt him, they were there.
There, like the wind through woods in riot,
Through him the gale of life blew high;
The tree of man was never quiet:
Then 't was the Roman, now 't is I.
Through him the gale of life blew high;
The tree of man was never quiet:
Then 't was the Roman, now 't is I.
The gale, it plies the saplings double,
It blows so hard, 't will soon be gone:
To-day the Roman and his trouble
Are ashes under Urieon.
It blows so hard, 't will soon be gone:
To-day the Roman and his trouble
Are ashes under Urieon.
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