Ancient Armoury Poem by Roy Ballard

My father's father and my own grew old
possessing this great house and these home lands
but now the legacy is ours to hold;
their weapons worn by war await our hands.
Their arms and armour, piled up to the roof,
await the day we put them to the test
though we it is who have to give them proof.
Where white plumes wave from every helmet crest,
on floor and wall our story can be read
for it is written in these battle hoards:
the shields that turned the spear and arrowhead,
belts, tunics, corselets, greaves and good, bronze swords…
Yet all of this is worthless without men
who have the will to wield the like again.