Come, follow me, my wandering mates,
Sons and daughters of the Fates,
Friends of night that oft have done
Homage to the horned moon;
Fairly march and shun not light
With such stars as these made bright.
Yet bend you low your curled tops,
Touch the hallowed earth, and then
Rise again with antic hops
Unused of men.
Here no danger is nor fear,
For true honour harbours here,
Whom grace attends;
Grace can make our foes our friends.