At the Rollrights Always listen
to the coming of the dawn
to the muses heard at twilight
far away towards the corn
listen to the grove of trees that
silently proclaim
stand beside the glorious Elder
of Long Compton fame
the Kings men
were exhausted as they reached
the steepest part
they lay getting their
breath back
all of stoutish heart
the diminutive
a crone in rags did cry
this hill is mine the lot of you
so leave now or you shall die