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IN THE CAMP 77
The bishop, an old man, white and bent,
Chanted a mass by the murmuring river,
Priests were there none, nor choral voices,
Nothing to aid —
Save only his own and sustaining faith.
When all was over, up they arose,
Grasped their weapons, and followed the bishop
Forth through the woods to the camp of the King.
Proud was their gait,
Now should they fight in the royal host.
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