Whence are ye and whither, O fowl of our fathers ? What field have ye looked on, what acres unshorn ? What land have ye left where the battle-folk gathers, And the war-helms are white o’er the paths of the corn ? What tale do ye bear of the people uncraven, Where amidst the long hall-shadow sparkle the spears ; Where aloft on the hall-ridge now flappeth the raven, And singeth the song of the nourishing years ? There gather the lads in the first of the morning, While white lies the battle-day’s dew on the grass, And the kind steeds trot up to the horn’s voice of warning, And the winds wake and whine in the dusk of the pass. O fowl of our fathers, why now are ye resting ? Come over the mountains and look on the foe. Full fair after fight won shall yet be your nesting ; And your fledglings the sons of the kindred shall know.