There are mummers yet on Cotswold, <br />Though Will Squele he lies low, <br />And men sow wheat on headlands <br />That other men see grow. <br /> <br />Eyes close and copper weights them; <br />Babes as blind come to birth; <br />Though John Gaunt's bets are ended <br />And shallow Shallow's mirth.<br /><br />Ivor Gurney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/generations-there-are-mummers-yet-on-cotswold/
