 | Contributions to a Ballad History of England and the States Sprung from Her |  |
THE MARCH TO BRENTFORD OF THE LONDON TRAINED-BANDS.
1642.
Bestir thee, London; slumber not; keep watch and ward, good town.
Be wakeful, as at noontide, though the night is darkening down;
In every home, snatch down the pike; at every gate, set guard;
And let your trained-bands muster quick, in every swarming ward;
Mayor, Aldermen, and Sheriffs haste; quick gather to the call;
For never yet was counsel good more needed in Guildhall;
Each messenger, hot spurring in, to-night brings tidings here
May well make stout hearts hot and bold, and faint ones cold with fear;
For scouts that from the north come in, to our good Mayor, bring word
That but a bare score miles away, they've Rupert's trumpets heard,
And many a flier from his march, who here for refuge comes,
Has fled the swifter that he caught the roll of Charles's drums;
Hour after hour is speeding fast; near come they and more near;
With day, if London stay them not, the Tyrant will be here.
Be wakeful, as at noontide, though the night is darkening down;
In every home, snatch down the pike; at every gate, set guard;
And let your trained-bands muster quick, in every swarming ward;
Mayor, Aldermen, and Sheriffs haste; quick gather to the call;
For never yet was counsel good more needed in Guildhall;
Each messenger, hot spurring in, to-night brings tidings here
May well make stout hearts hot and bold, and faint ones cold with fear;
For scouts that from the north come in, to our good Mayor, bring word
That but a bare score miles away, they've Rupert's trumpets heard,
And many a flier from his march, who here for refuge comes,
Has fled the swifter that he caught the roll of Charles's drums;
Hour after hour is speeding fast; near come they and more near;
With day, if London stay them not, the Tyrant will be here.
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In counsel deep sit Alderman and Counsellor and Mayor;
Stout hearts, I trow, and pious souls and wise grey heads are there;
Not light and worldly ones are they who sit around the board;
But grave men who, by word and deed, still seek to serve the Lord;
Not gay of garb or worldly fair, whom locks and gew-gaws deck,
But sad-attired and sober-souled, of show, who little reck;
And, as their garb, so is their speech; not theirs are brawl or worse,
The lewd talk of the dicer, the courtier's gay-laughed curse;
The weight is laid upon them of their dear souls' precious care,
Of the fear of him who watcheth to take them in his snare;
Therefore they seek by watchfulness, spare speech and guarded thought,
By aid of Him they own their Lord, to act as He has taught.
Therefore, this hour, as evermore, no fear of man they know,
No dread of aught, save but of sin and their soul's ceaseless foe.
Stout hearts, I trow, and pious souls and wise grey heads are there;
Not light and worldly ones are they who sit around the board;
But grave men who, by word and deed, still seek to serve the Lord;
Not gay of garb or worldly fair, whom locks and gew-gaws deck,
But sad-attired and sober-souled, of show, who little reck;
And, as their garb, so is their speech; not theirs are brawl or worse,
The lewd talk of the dicer, the courtier's gay-laughed curse;
The weight is laid upon them of their dear souls' precious care,
Of the fear of him who watcheth to take them in his snare;
Therefore they seek by watchfulness, spare speech and guarded thought,
By aid of Him they own their Lord, to act as He has taught.
Therefore, this hour, as evermore, no fear of man they know,
No dread of aught, save but of sin and their soul's ceaseless foe.
Out speaks the Mayor, a stately man with hair as white as snow,
But age is not in his stout words, nor in his eyes' keen glow,
“Let our trained-bands forth to meet them; their van is here with day;
“If London list not to be sacked, its sons their march must stay;
“What though they come with strong array, with trust in horse and sword,
“Our pikes their hosts shall scatter; our faith is in the Lord;
“As David, 'gainst the mighty one, went forth with sling and stone,
“Let our faithful hearts go forth to fight, strong in His strength alone,
“And, even as He hath promised, to those to Him who pray,
“The Lord shall give them to our hands, to tread down and to slay;
“Even as to the Amalakites of old, did Joshua do,
“So will we smite and spare them not and down their captains hew.”
So speaks he and they hear his words as grateful to the Lord,
And a grim murmur of assent rolls round the council-board.
But age is not in his stout words, nor in his eyes' keen glow,
“Let our trained-bands forth to meet them; their van is here with day;
“If London list not to be sacked, its sons their march must stay;
“What though they come with strong array, with trust in horse and sword,
“Our pikes their hosts shall scatter; our faith is in the Lord;
“As David, 'gainst the mighty one, went forth with sling and stone,
“Let our faithful hearts go forth to fight, strong in His strength alone,
“And, even as He hath promised, to those to Him who pray,
“The Lord shall give them to our hands, to tread down and to slay;
“Even as to the Amalakites of old, did Joshua do,
“So will we smite and spare them not and down their captains hew.”
So speaks he and they hear his words as grateful to the Lord,
And a grim murmur of assent rolls round the council-board.
The chains are loosed from 'cross the street; each western gate's flung wide;
The torrent of stout London's pikes is streaming down Cheapside;
By Paul's dark church, through Temple Bar, past Charing Cross they go;
With Thames' full flood sweeps by the tide, with Thames' unceasing flow;
Through Kensington they sweep right on without or stay or rest;
Towards Brentford on and ever on the trained bands hurry West;
On, “For the Houses and the Cause,” “God with us,” is their cry,
Hour after hour, unpausing still, their even ranks go by,
And ever as their bright pikes pass, stout Skippon's eye, before,
“Pray well, my lads; fight well, my boys!” he utters o'er and o'er;
“Pray with a heart, fight with a heart, for all you hold most dear!
“I will be with you in the fight, as I am with you here;
“Think still you fight for God's own cause, for child and wife you fight!
“Pray heartily! fight heartily! your God will bless the right.”
The torrent of stout London's pikes is streaming down Cheapside;
By Paul's dark church, through Temple Bar, past Charing Cross they go;
With Thames' full flood sweeps by the tide, with Thames' unceasing flow;
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Towards Brentford on and ever on the trained bands hurry West;
On, “For the Houses and the Cause,” “God with us,” is their cry,
Hour after hour, unpausing still, their even ranks go by,
And ever as their bright pikes pass, stout Skippon's eye, before,
“Pray well, my lads; fight well, my boys!” he utters o'er and o'er;
“Pray with a heart, fight with a heart, for all you hold most dear!
“I will be with you in the fight, as I am with you here;
“Think still you fight for God's own cause, for child and wife you fight!
“Pray heartily! fight heartily! your God will bless the right.”
Out, citizen! out, prentice, go! shall London sink in flame?
Shall your dear wives and maidens know the wrong men dare not name?
Shall Rupert's brutal sworders all your ways with horrors fill?
Shall fierce and lewd ones crowd your homes, to plunder, shame, and kill?
Better, upon a bloody field, to conquer or to fall,
Than see your shrieking hearths the prey of the bullies of Whitehall;
Better, in death, for stainless homes, lie stiff and stark and cold,
Than live your children's shrieks to hear, the moanings of your old;
Better, a thousand times, to lie in free and honoured graves,
Than, gagged by Straffords and by Lauds, to breathe the breath of slaves;
Better, on high, through martyrdom, to seek and serve the Lord,
Than know the woes, dealt to the saints, by Bishops and the sword;
For Law, for God, for Right, for Truth, The Houses and the Word,
Forth in the might of prayer and praise! the Lord, your cry, hath heard.
Shall your dear wives and maidens know the wrong men dare not name?
Shall Rupert's brutal sworders all your ways with horrors fill?
Shall fierce and lewd ones crowd your homes, to plunder, shame, and kill?
Better, upon a bloody field, to conquer or to fall,
Than see your shrieking hearths the prey of the bullies of Whitehall;
Better, in death, for stainless homes, lie stiff and stark and cold,
Than live your children's shrieks to hear, the moanings of your old;
Better, a thousand times, to lie in free and honoured graves,
Than, gagged by Straffords and by Lauds, to breathe the breath of slaves;
Better, on high, through martyrdom, to seek and serve the Lord,
Than know the woes, dealt to the saints, by Bishops and the sword;
For Law, for God, for Right, for Truth, The Houses and the Word,
Forth in the might of prayer and praise! the Lord, your cry, hath heard.
Out, through the drear October morn, slow brightening on to grey;
Out, through the noon's dim brightness, on, through the dark close of day;
With steps, as firm as their stout hearts, sweep by their flashing files;
Towards the foe they stoutly go, with hummed hymns and grim smiles;
By barricades, to bar the streets, should there the fight be fought,
By fort and trench, where tender hands, women's and babes' have wrought,
By farms, sad in the autumn sun, where trembling weak ones stand,
Listening in fear for Rupert's horse, the scourges of our land,
Through villages, whose full-thronged streets are filled with fearful prayer
For them and the Good Cause for which they go the foe to dare,
With the fierce blare of trumpets, the thunder-roll of drums,
Let Essex hear how to his aid, the might of London comes;
Never, when faith and freedom called, was the good City slack;
Never, when wrong was to be fought, held the good City back;
To-day, once more ranked for the right, its foes its strength shall see,
And, from their face, the Tyrant foiled, with all his hosts shall flee.
Out, through the noon's dim brightness, on, through the dark close of day;
With steps, as firm as their stout hearts, sweep by their flashing files;
Towards the foe they stoutly go, with hummed hymns and grim smiles;
By barricades, to bar the streets, should there the fight be fought,
By fort and trench, where tender hands, women's and babes' have wrought,
By farms, sad in the autumn sun, where trembling weak ones stand,
Listening in fear for Rupert's horse, the scourges of our land,
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For them and the Good Cause for which they go the foe to dare,
With the fierce blare of trumpets, the thunder-roll of drums,
Let Essex hear how to his aid, the might of London comes;
Never, when faith and freedom called, was the good City slack;
Never, when wrong was to be fought, held the good City back;
To-day, once more ranked for the right, its foes its strength shall see,
And, from their face, the Tyrant foiled, with all his hosts shall flee.
| Contributions to a Ballad History of England and the States Sprung from Her | |