Saints in Sussex

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.

Oh, stay and give us grace,

For our hearts are grey with dule,

As each man lifts his face

In the dreadful days of Yule,

When the burning Wheel stands still

In the black and dropping skies,

And the Long Man screams upon the hill

With the human sacrifice.

Andrew, what of the North?

Our Druids tell sad tales,

Our arms have lost their worth

In the scrubby hills of Wales;

But thy mighty banners go

Forward and pass us by,

As the Northern streamers fly and flow

On the red wings of the sky.

We hear strange tales of thee—

We hear thou preachest still

A Man more fair than Bald, a Tree

More tall than Ygdrasyl,

A Bread more strong than meat,

Water more fierce than wine—

Than the mead which drunken gods find sweet

In the halls where Heroes dine....

To the little Southern Men

Saint Andrew answered he:

“I have heard from the Northern fen

Your moan from the Gaulish sea;

And though I pass you by,

And may not see your face,

Yet my Lord hath heard your cry,

And He sends you hope of grace.