THE IMP.
9
her green robe bore a white swan, wrought underneath in wondrous wavy pattern. Their chieftain she—a warrior glorious in victory. Against them in the field stepped micel Sumorvilla,' a staffbearing troop. Red was their war gear : full fearful were they who, in the ranks of war, strode to meet the children of Hughcoll. Fierce was the rush of battle—the mighty war rush, when the tempered swords clashed together and the white war ball flew. Resolute was she who from her bed had risen for the fray. Quickly she smote, not caring for her life, nor did she withhold the blow. Sorrow was there to the Sumorvilla and anguish of mind to many a one to suffer ; distress to the red kirtles, every one, when in the net of the goal-hall they found the white war ball. Then did the horn sing its eager war-note ; and fearful to hear was the din of the shouting—the clang of the war rattle—the battle horn's blast. Then was respite given to the children of Hughcoll, and to the Sumorvilla ; and, weary of limb, they rested upon the greensward. She of the swan device spoke, encouraging the warriors—the glorious child of Hughcoll—bold in war : Now is there need of courage. Brave must be the hearts of those who in the battle seek to win treasure for their people. Fulfil your task ; rewarded shall ye be with ancient treasure and a wrought cup.' Quickly then was requital given to the children of Hughcoll ; but stalwart were they and of good courage, remembering the words of their chieftain. To the gold hall they bore the shining treasure—the cup wrought about in strange device. Great was the feasting in the mead-hall when the children of Hughcoll bore home the silver cup ; and high on the benches were raised the words of boasting. .
SCHOOLS FEVER. [We suggest that as the original poem was set to music, this parody should be sung — preferably to oneself — rather than read.—ED.1 I must go down to the Rad again, to the lonely Rad with a sigh, And all I ask is an old bike and a lamp to steer him by ; And the wheel's kick and the bell's ting and the torn gown flapping, And the grey fear of the prog. on my face, for I'm without my capping.
I must go down to the Rad again, e'en though to tears I'm bored, For the essay's call is a clear call and may not he ignored ; And all I ask is a pink slip and the small boys flying, But not to be told Book can't be found' ; for that would be most trying.