Andrew, what of the North? In November shadows drear We have heard thee marching forth With songs of a glad new year. Thou goest to mountains high, To Picts in a Northern fen— But, Andrew, tarry and hear the cry Of the little Southern Men. Down by the seas of Gaul, Where the Roman eagles stand, Anderida they call Our shaggy forest land. We have no saving health, To us no Word comes forth, On us the gods bestow no wealth— Yet Andrew goes to the North.…
Your support pays for translating these classics into more languages.
Support for $12/month DonateSubscribers read with instant translation, without waiting for the free daily limit.