Against a stack of sun-warmed peat,
We lay beside the Robbers' Syke;
And idly watched the noonday heat
Quivering above the drystone-dyke.

By sun distressed, the panting sheep
Within the dyke's half-foot of shade
Huddled; and vainly sought to sleep,
While teasing flies about them played.

We watched the flies that in the air
Played at a dithering game of tig,
Until our eyes were drawn to where
A hawk hung over Dead Man's Rigg.

Over the sun-steeped golden fell
A kestrel hung on quivering wing;
Then dropped: and, why I could not tell,
I felt the sudden pounce and sting

Of beak and talons in my breast;
And, as I turned, in fear's clutch gripped,
You crouched by me, with eyes distressed,
And into mine a cold hand slipped.