Chorus of Women

Ay, upon the camp’s high wall

All our children loved they slay.

Ah, what cruel victors they!
And we all
Hasten to a certain fall.

A Druid

Who fears to-day

His rites to pay,

Deserves his chains to wear.

The forest’s free!

This wood take we,

And straight a pile prepare!

Yet in the wood

To stay ’tis good

By day, till all is still,
With watchers all around us plac’d

Protecting you from ill.
With courage fresh, then let us haste

Our duties to fulfil.