The pampered lords and ladies robed proclaimed from gilded halls on high
That strangers should be welcomed in and treated as our hearth-bound tie;
We set the board with honest fare and cleared the benches by the fire,
Yet soon they sat as titled guests, demanding more with bold desire.
They shunned the house-carl’s sturdy call, refused the shield-wall’s loyal stand,
Declared that we must guard their peace, as though our oath was their command;
They spoke as masters of the keep, though none had trod our winter fields,
Nor borne the spears of harvest men nor raised the strength that tilled our yields.
They sniffed the meat and mocked the broth, pronounced our cattle stained and base,
Decried the sheep for ancient ways, the swine for sins of common race;
They bade the hounds be driven out, the hearth be swept of native kind,
And scowled at banners on the wall as relics fit for harsher wind.
They whispered that the crescent’s curve should grace the hall where lions stood,
That Canterbury’s pilgrim flame was but a tale for bygone wood;
The perfumed lords, in courtly feud, spilled ink for gold and silver’s gleam,
While guests rewrote the house’s laws and shaped the realm into a dream.
The people murmured in the fields, the smiths fell silent at the fire,
For none who forged the island’s spine could stomach rule from soft desire;
In taverns low and manor high the question stirred the ale-worn air,
How long shall those who built the hall be told they have no right to care?
Yet from the haze of weakling days arose a general stern of brow,
Who knew the fyrd, the oath-bound ring, the ancient pledge that shields us now;
He called the folk to weigh their fate, to stand or let the kingdom quell,
And left the whispered question hung: must Albion find her Cromwell?
(By John Shenton)