The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
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 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
Prince Rupert, then, whose valour ne'er would yield,
Again returns, in hopes to gain the field;
The firmest of his troops resolved to lie
Cold on the field, or gain the victory;
But not a friend they met—these all are fled,
Except the wounded, dying, and the dead;
While foes in thousands, stretched upon the plain,
Showed e'en the noblest effort would be vain.
He had a heart, and such had all his men,
They'd not have shrunk to meet them one to ten;
But when five hundred must engage a host,
E'en Cromwell's self must own the day was lost.
When in the west the sun in grief had sunk,
That Marston Moor such noble blood had drunk,
The troops of Cromwell had no quarters nigh,
For Yorkshire then was friend to royalty.
Through every line the haughty conqueror rode,
Exhorting all to give the praise to God!
Thanking the men who had the victory gained,
When far from balls and swords the Earl remained.
He seemed to mourn the day so far was gone,
That nothing for the wounded could be done;
But, if they waited till the break of day,
All shattered limbs should then be cut away;
Balls be extracted, every wound be drest—
Both friends and foes with surgeons should be blest!
Then well to sup he galloped off the ground,
Felt not the pain, for he received no wound:
And so it is in battles, nine for ten,
Leaders get praise, and victory's gained by men.
The scene was awful, when the light began
To shine on features gory, pale, and wan;
Some, who had plundered in the shades of night,
Slunk swift away, as though to shun the light.
When morning, with a crimson colour, spread
Her beams upon six thousand warriors dead,
What would the feelings be of those who sought
A son or husband, who had bravely fought?
What shrieks were heard among the ghastly dead,
Whilst many a widow raised her husband's head,
O'erwhelmed with woe—of every hope bereft,
And nothing but her starving children left!
These were the scenes on Marston's gory plain,
And such would be in Anarchy's proud reign.
Witness old Spain, when she was stained with gore,
When France sent rivers crimsoned to the shore,
Till tides of ocean, bearing back her guilt,
Upbraided her with all the blood she spilt;
When the red bolts through Italy were hurled,
And half destroyed the garden of the world;
And Moscow's blaze, amid the snowy field,
Ere Russia to the pride of France would yield,
When Nature's self was armed with frost and snow,
And slew what Russians never could lay low.
Again returns, in hopes to gain the field;
The firmest of his troops resolved to lie
Cold on the field, or gain the victory;
But not a friend they met—these all are fled,
Except the wounded, dying, and the dead;
While foes in thousands, stretched upon the plain,
Showed e'en the noblest effort would be vain.
He had a heart, and such had all his men,
They'd not have shrunk to meet them one to ten;
But when five hundred must engage a host,
E'en Cromwell's self must own the day was lost.
When in the west the sun in grief had sunk,
That Marston Moor such noble blood had drunk,
The troops of Cromwell had no quarters nigh,
For Yorkshire then was friend to royalty.
69
Exhorting all to give the praise to God!
Thanking the men who had the victory gained,
When far from balls and swords the Earl remained.
He seemed to mourn the day so far was gone,
That nothing for the wounded could be done;
But, if they waited till the break of day,
All shattered limbs should then be cut away;
Balls be extracted, every wound be drest—
Both friends and foes with surgeons should be blest!
Then well to sup he galloped off the ground,
Felt not the pain, for he received no wound:
And so it is in battles, nine for ten,
Leaders get praise, and victory's gained by men.
The scene was awful, when the light began
To shine on features gory, pale, and wan;
Some, who had plundered in the shades of night,
Slunk swift away, as though to shun the light.
When morning, with a crimson colour, spread
Her beams upon six thousand warriors dead,
What would the feelings be of those who sought
A son or husband, who had bravely fought?
What shrieks were heard among the ghastly dead,
Whilst many a widow raised her husband's head,
O'erwhelmed with woe—of every hope bereft,
And nothing but her starving children left!
70
And such would be in Anarchy's proud reign.
Witness old Spain, when she was stained with gore,
When France sent rivers crimsoned to the shore,
Till tides of ocean, bearing back her guilt,
Upbraided her with all the blood she spilt;
When the red bolts through Italy were hurled,
And half destroyed the garden of the world;
And Moscow's blaze, amid the snowy field,
Ere Russia to the pride of France would yield,
When Nature's self was armed with frost and snow,
And slew what Russians never could lay low.
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |