Poetical works of the late F. Sayers to which have been prefixed the connected disquisitions on the rise and progress of English poetry, and on English metres, and also some biographic particulars of the author, supplied by W. Taylor |
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A WAR SONG. |
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 | Poetical works of the late F. Sayers |  |
A WAR SONG.
[_]
Fingal, surrounded by a numerous army of the enemy, in a valley from which he had no prospect of escape, unexpectedly perceived on the tops of the mountains the troops of his friends, advancing to his relief: at this period the song begins.
High o'er the hills the banners wave in air;
A band of heroes stalk in armed pride;
With Erin's gold the shining streamers glare,
Revenge! revenge! the starting Fingal cried.
A band of heroes stalk in armed pride;
With Erin's gold the shining streamers glare,
Revenge! revenge! the starting Fingal cried.
Lo! their glittering flags I spy,
The dark-hair'd sons of victory;
Now the boaster's pride is low—
Deeply strike th' avenging blow.
The dark-hair'd sons of victory;
Now the boaster's pride is low—
Deeply strike th' avenging blow.
169
'T is Dermod's colt!—he breathes dismay,
Strong-arm'd warriors, feast no more—
Dermod's banners foremost play
When the streams of battle roar;
Now the boaster's pride is low—
Deeply strike th' avenging blow.
Strong-arm'd warriors, feast no more—
Dermod's banners foremost play
When the streams of battle roar;
Now the boaster's pride is low—
Deeply strike th' avenging blow.
See!—the gore-stain'd eagle rose,
Fierce the host that Chialt leads
Scattering heads of flying foes
Bloody thro' the fight he speeds;
Now the boaster's pride is low—
Deeply strike th' avenging blow.
Fierce the host that Chialt leads
Scattering heads of flying foes
Bloody thro' the fight he speeds;
Now the boaster's pride is low—
Deeply strike th' avenging blow.
Who is next?—the dark-brow'd king
Drifting heaper of the slain,
When the thickening weapons ring,
Last shall Oscar's hand refrain;
Now the boaster's pride is low—
Deeply strike th' avenging blow.
Drifting heaper of the slain,
When the thickening weapons ring,
Last shall Oscar's hand refrain;
Now the boaster's pride is low—
Deeply strike th' avenging blow.
Lo! the son of Morni's near,
When the hosts of fight are mix'd,
When the green earth quakes for fear,
Firm his nervous foot is fix'd;
Now the boaster's pride is low—
Deeply strike th' avenging blow.
When the hosts of fight are mix'd,
When the green earth quakes for fear,
Firm his nervous foot is fix'd;
Now the boaster's pride is low—
Deeply strike th' avenging blow.
170
Enough, enough, too much for thee,
On the dark-brown hills I see,
They come, they come, the warlike trains,
Drag nine weighty golden chains,
Nine hundred heroes at their head—
I see the gazing foe a-dread.
Before the hissing spear they flee
As wreck along the dashing sea;
Shouts of warriors rend the skies,
Battle smiles—arise, arise—
Now the boaster's pride is low—
Deeply strike th' avenging blow.
On the dark-brown hills I see,
They come, they come, the warlike trains,
Drag nine weighty golden chains,
Nine hundred heroes at their head—
I see the gazing foe a-dread.
Before the hissing spear they flee
As wreck along the dashing sea;
Shouts of warriors rend the skies,
Battle smiles—arise, arise—
Now the boaster's pride is low—
Deeply strike th' avenging blow.
| Poetical works of the late F. Sayers | |