THE EARLIST INCANTATION OF A DRUIDS' RHYME.
 ( Is The Story of a Merchant and his Vine.)   

 ,
Oh Nephew, Nephew,
Hear this Ancient 
Tale,
For Soon those Ears
Will Turn to Stone,
I Pray,
For soon an Incantation you will
Hear not once again,
Of a truer kind,

Spells,
Blood now,
Drunken from this curdled
Cup,
Of ritual Poison,
Waters are Your Rock
Sustaining,
Soft,
And ,
Holy,

Plough then your line,
With Bronze or Iron,
Oh Silver Sickle,
Sweeping True,
For Golden is Your Mistletoe
 Of Ripen Fellow Dew,

Spelling letters,
In Sheaves,
And Rhyme,
To the Wind,
Round Scribes,
And Standing Stones,,
Spinning Yarns,
Of a Merchant,
And his Vine,
Tavellin' but from the East,
By the Stars and fair Sail,
Of the Middle Sea.