Song of a Cretan warrior

My wealth's a burly spear and brand,

And a right good shield of hides untanned,

Which on my arm I buckle:

With these I plough, I reap, I sow,

With these I make the sweet vintage flow,

And all around me truckle.

But your wights that take no pride to wield

A massy spear and well-made shield,

Nor joy to draw the sword;

Oh, I bring those heartless, hapless drones

Down in a trice on their marrow-bones,

To call me king and lord.