The tall tower and the shealing
Alike must meet the blast,
And the world is strewn with shingle
From dwellings of the past."
But to the Grande Place, Arras,
Came, too, the hum of bees,
That suck the sea-pink's sweetness
From isles of the Hebrides,
And in Iona fashion
Homes mid old effigies:
"Our cells the monks demolished
To make their mead of yore,
And still though we be ravished
Each Autumn of our store,
While the sun lasts, and the flower,
Tireless we'll gather more."
Up then and spake with twitt'rings
Out of the chanter reed,
Birds that each Spring to Appin,
Over the oceans speed,
And in its ruined castles
Make love again and breed:
"Already see our brothers
Build in the tottering fane!
Though France should be a desert,
While love and Spring remain,
Men will come back to Arras,
And build and weave again."
So played the pipes in Arras
Their Gaelic symphony,
Sweet with old wisdom gathered
In isles of the Highland sea,
And eastward towards Cambrai
Roared the artillery.
