Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads Jacobite Ballads, &c. &c. By George W. Thornbury ... with illustrations by H. S. Marks |
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WIGAN'S RETREAT. |
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 | Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads |  |
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WIGAN'S RETREAT.
Hurrah! for the trumpeter blowing his best—
Blood on his feather, and blood on his crest;
Here was old Warrener, trusty as steel,
Fitting a crimson spur fast to his heel.
Blood on his feather, and blood on his crest;
Here was old Warrener, trusty as steel,
Fitting a crimson spur fast to his heel.
There rode the banner-man—Lord! how his flag
Blew all about with its patch and its rag—
But he shook it, and made the old tawny and blue
Flutter its welcome words, “Tender and true.”
Blew all about with its patch and its rag—
But he shook it, and made the old tawny and blue
Flutter its welcome words, “Tender and true.”
Robinson's helmet had tokens of work;
Jenkin was powder-scorched, black as a Turk;
There were notches inch deep in young Bellamy's sword,
He had shed his best blood at the Yellow-stone ford.
Jenkin was powder-scorched, black as a Turk;
There were notches inch deep in young Bellamy's sword,
He had shed his best blood at the Yellow-stone ford.
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Powder-black, bleeding lads, hungry and torn;
Brown faces, wan faces, haggard and worn,
Laughing to think of the ups and the downs,
Riding rough-shod o'er the Puritan clowns.
Brown faces, wan faces, haggard and worn,
Laughing to think of the ups and the downs,
Riding rough-shod o'er the Puritan clowns.
Steady and slow, with a thought for the dead,
Some with a bandage on arm and on head
Scarcely awake, till the rap at a flint
Showed them good coin, sirs, sound from the mint.
Some with a bandage on arm and on head
Scarcely awake, till the rap at a flint
Showed them good coin, sirs, sound from the mint.
When the gun spoke and long barrels looked out,
From window and loop-hole, and gable and spout,
Then they struck spurs, and the trumpeter, Jack,
Blew till his yellow face clouded with black.
From window and loop-hole, and gable and spout,
Then they struck spurs, and the trumpeter, Jack,
Blew till his yellow face clouded with black.
Like a swift lightning flame, through the ripe corn
Ran the loud welcome of anger and scorn;
Up went the sabres—a flashing of light
Spread from the cheering left on to the right.
Ran the loud welcome of anger and scorn;
Up went the sabres—a flashing of light
Spread from the cheering left on to the right.
A staggering blinding of shot and of flame,
Struck down the scarfs and the feathers that came,
But when the black thunder-cloud burst with a roar,
Out broke the Wiganers—thirty-two score.
Struck down the scarfs and the feathers that came,
But when the black thunder-cloud burst with a roar,
Out broke the Wiganers—thirty-two score.
Have you seen the sea leap when a dyke has broke in?
Or a swollen Scotch torrent leap down in a linn?
Then you've seen the hot charge that swept Bolsover through,
When Wigan rode first of the “tender and true.”
Or a swollen Scotch torrent leap down in a linn?
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When Wigan rode first of the “tender and true.”
Wigan was bloody, and dusty and worn,
His buff torn with pike-head and bramble and thorn,
His scarf all awry, and his feather in twain,
His saddle-cloth purple with blood of the slain.
His buff torn with pike-head and bramble and thorn,
His scarf all awry, and his feather in twain,
His saddle-cloth purple with blood of the slain.
His collar of point-lace, all mudded and red,
A gash on his forehead, a rag round his head;
Yet still bowing low to the townsmen, who scowl,
And calling for sack at the “Flagon and Bowl.”
A gash on his forehead, a rag round his head;
Yet still bowing low to the townsmen, who scowl,
And calling for sack at the “Flagon and Bowl.”
The host by the sleeve, and the maid by the hand,
He praised her—the beauty of Bolsover land;
Then with strong shouting of hurry and force,
Crying with pistol shot—“Gallants to horse!’
He praised her—the beauty of Bolsover land;
Then with strong shouting of hurry and force,
Crying with pistol shot—“Gallants to horse!’
| Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads | |