 | Dryburgh Abbey and other poems |  |
THE BRITISH BOW.
I
Hurrah! the Bow, the British bow,The gallant, fine old English bow!
Never flashed sword upon the foe,
Like arrow from the good yew bow!
What knight a nobler weapon wields?
Thou victor of a thousand fields,—
Are lances, carbines, thy compeers?
No: vouch it, Cressy and Poictiers!
With hearts of oak and bows of yew,
And shafts that like the lightening flew,
Old England wore her proudest crown,
Nor bolt nor brand might strike it down!
Hurrah!
28
II
Hurrah! the bow, the British bow,The merry, true old English Bow!
Where fed the stag or sprung the roe,
There bent the ready stout yew bow!
What hoof of speed dared scorn its might?
What plume outsoar its glorious flight?
Oh! joyous was the greenwood then,
And matchless all her own bold men;
Her rovers rude by mount and flood,
Her king of outlaws, Robin Hood!
Right daring, reckless, wild, and free,
Great champion of the brave yew-tree,
Hurrah!
III
Hurrah! the bow, the British bow,The stately, firm old English bow!
What souls with freedom's spirit glow,
That love not thee, heroic bow?
When haughty Gaul deem'd all-secure
The victor's wreath at Agincourt,
Thy shafts, triumphant from the string,
Bore fate and vengeance on their wing;
And well the serried ranks might reel,
When, like a hurricane of steel,
They saw ten thousand barbs assail
Their horse and horsemen, helm and mail!
Hurrah!
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IV
Hurrah! the bow, the British bow,The graceful, light old English bow!
What island of the world may show
Aught like our own unconquer'd bow?
The guardian of our native wild,
When Liberty was yet a child;
Ere yet were launch'd our ships of war,
Our thunderbolts of Trafalgar;
When Nelson was no magic word—
Drake, Hawke, St. Vincent's fame unheard!
Then, oh!—whilst freedom's bounties flow,
Thrice honour'd be the bow! the bow!
Old England's bow! Hurrah!
| Dryburgh Abbey and other poems | |