The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson ... for the first time fully collected and compared with the original and early editions ... edited ... by the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart ... with portrait, illustrations, &c |
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THE SIEGE. |
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 | The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson |  |
325
THE SIEGE.
“To horse! to horse! my merry men,
Why sit you feasting there?
When, from within yon dungeon's wall,
Your captive friends for vengeance call
In accents of despair.”
Why sit you feasting there?
When, from within yon dungeon's wall,
Your captive friends for vengeance call
In accents of despair.”
“What mean those words,” bold Stanley said;
“What mean those words I hear?
What mean those words you now have said?
Where be those friends who call for aid,
While we sit idling here?”
“What mean those words I hear?
What mean those words you now have said?
Where be those friends who call for aid,
While we sit idling here?”
“Within the cursed castle walls,
Of your fierce enemy;
Full fifty of your bravest men,
Are lying—who this day were ta'en,
And I alone got free.”
Of your fierce enemy;
Full fifty of your bravest men,
Are lying—who this day were ta'en,
And I alone got free.”
Up started brave Lord Stanley then,
Saying, “By the blessed rood,
He for this deed shall sorely pay,
Ere yonder sun has set to-day,
With his heart's dearest blood.
Saying, “By the blessed rood,
He for this deed shall sorely pay,
Ere yonder sun has set to-day,
With his heart's dearest blood.
“And now my friends, to arms! to arms;
And let us quick to horse;”
And soon five hundred men amain,
Were hurrying onwards o'er the plain;
In sooth a goodly force.
And let us quick to horse;”
And soon five hundred men amain,
Were hurrying onwards o'er the plain;
In sooth a goodly force.
And coming to the castle strong,
Lord Stanley loudly calls:
Deliver up to me those men
Which you took prisoners, and then
Shut up within these walls.”
Lord Stanley loudly calls:
Deliver up to me those men
Which you took prisoners, and then
Shut up within these walls.”
326
The warder answered him with scorn:
“Your men you ne'er will see;
For ere the sun has reached his height,
All those ta'en prisoners in the fight
Their punishment shall dree.”
“Your men you ne'er will see;
For ere the sun has reached his height,
All those ta'en prisoners in the fight
Their punishment shall dree.”
“Archers, advance!” Lord Stanley cried;
And from each ready bow
The arrows speedily were sent,
Rattling against the battlement,
Then dropping down below.
And from each ready bow
The arrows speedily were sent,
Rattling against the battlement,
Then dropping down below.
Those in the castle now began,
From loopholes in the wall,
To shoot on the invading force;
And soon from off his gallant horse,
Many a brave knight did fall.
From loopholes in the wall,
To shoot on the invading force;
And soon from off his gallant horse,
Many a brave knight did fall.
“Attack the gate!” again he cried,
And soon each willing hand
Made the blows rattle thick as hail;
To force the gate they could not fail,
Nought might such force withstand.
And soon each willing hand
Made the blows rattle thick as hail;
To force the gate they could not fail,
Nought might such force withstand.
When from the castle's lofty top—
Oh! horrible to view!—
The gory heads and mangled limbs
Of those who'd prisoners been within,
Down on the foe they threw!
Oh! horrible to view!—
The gory heads and mangled limbs
Of those who'd prisoners been within,
Down on the foe they threw!
Who, struck with horror at the sight,
Turned round, and fled away;
And long and grievously did mourn
At their disconsolate return,
And what they'd seen that day.
Turned round, and fled away;
And long and grievously did mourn
At their disconsolate return,
And what they'd seen that day.
327
As soon's the Spouter had got through his piece,
Some cried hurra! an' ithers hissed like geese.
“Saves! that's an awfu' bluidy tale,” says ane,
“Do ye think ere sic cruelty was done?”
“Aye was't, man” said his neebour, “mony a time
I've heard it tell't though ne'er before in rhyme.
It happened, man, no far frae whare we are:
But guidsake! what's the matter wi' the girr,
That it's gaun up an' down at sic a rate?
I see it's that wee blastit sinner Pate.
I say, Pate, keep yer fingers aff that string,
An' silence there, the callan's gaun to sing.”
As Master Sprat, began fu' loud to roar,
A sang nane o' us e'er had heard before,
About “Young Jeannie,” when—“Oh! damn young Jeannie,”
A fellow cried, “come gie us something funny;”
Anither said, “Man, Jock, let him alane;
I say, my laddie, just begin again,
An' pick as short a ane, as e'er ye can;
For I can tell ye what it is, my man,
Gif that yer singing be ought like yer fiddling,
The best that we can say o't, is—it's middling.”
Some cried hurra! an' ithers hissed like geese.
“Saves! that's an awfu' bluidy tale,” says ane,
“Do ye think ere sic cruelty was done?”
“Aye was't, man” said his neebour, “mony a time
I've heard it tell't though ne'er before in rhyme.
It happened, man, no far frae whare we are:
But guidsake! what's the matter wi' the girr,
That it's gaun up an' down at sic a rate?
I see it's that wee blastit sinner Pate.
I say, Pate, keep yer fingers aff that string,
An' silence there, the callan's gaun to sing.”
As Master Sprat, began fu' loud to roar,
A sang nane o' us e'er had heard before,
About “Young Jeannie,” when—“Oh! damn young Jeannie,”
A fellow cried, “come gie us something funny;”
Anither said, “Man, Jock, let him alane;
I say, my laddie, just begin again,
An' pick as short a ane, as e'er ye can;
For I can tell ye what it is, my man,
Gif that yer singing be ought like yer fiddling,
The best that we can say o't, is—it's middling.”
| The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson | |