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 |
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
Now with the fire of battle,
Swords, and shields, and helmets ring;
Dreadful was the deadly rattle—
Either host fought for a king!
Swords, and shields, and helmets ring;
Dreadful was the deadly rattle—
Either host fought for a king!
Red with blood the warriors' feet,
Shattered many a brazen shield;
Again they turn!—again they meet!
Death stamps his name upon the field.
Shattered many a brazen shield;
Again they turn!—again they meet!
Death stamps his name upon the field.
80
Northumberland, with burning breast,
Leading his warriors at their head;
Each line, each squadron thus address'd:
“See, nearly half our foes are dead!
Leading his warriors at their head;
Each line, each squadron thus address'd:
“See, nearly half our foes are dead!
Forward, ye brave! the day is ours;
Forward, and fiercely fight the foe!”
But darts and arrows came in showers,
And laid the mighty leader low.
Forward, and fiercely fight the foe!”
But darts and arrows came in showers,
And laid the mighty leader low.
Now the charge—now the flame
Burning in each warrior's heart;
Each forgot, or life, or fame,
Scorned the sword, the spear, the dart.
Burning in each warrior's heart;
Each forgot, or life, or fame,
Scorned the sword, the spear, the dart.
Wave the red rose and the white,
Ranks are broken, rage is king;
Mingled, man with man they fight—
Lost the centre, and each wing.
Ranks are broken, rage is king;
Mingled, man with man they fight—
Lost the centre, and each wing.
Beaumont falls—a thousand more
Fight around the corse of Grey;
Ev'ry face is red with gore—
Death is sated with his prey.
Fight around the corse of Grey;
Ev'ry face is red with gore—
Death is sated with his prey.
Raging comes the furious storm,
Either host is lost in snow;
Rage so fierce—no line can form—
In the drifts are thousands low!
Either host is lost in snow;
Rage so fierce—no line can form—
In the drifts are thousands low!
81
White the storm falls from the sky;
When upon the plain 'tis spread,
Soon 'tis changed with gory dye,
Swords, and snow, and fields are red.
When upon the plain 'tis spread,
Soon 'tis changed with gory dye,
Swords, and snow, and fields are red.
Now the centre meets the wing;
Clash the swords, and break the spears;
Now the targe—the helmets ring,
Death in every form appears;
Clash the swords, and break the spears;
Now the targe—the helmets ring,
Death in every form appears;
Limbs are lost, and heads are cleft,
Thousands fall to rise no more:
Oh! what widows then were left,
With their helpless orphans poor!
Thousands fall to rise no more:
Oh! what widows then were left,
With their helpless orphans poor!
Now they fly, and now they turn,
By the battle's fury driv'n;
All their breasts with anger burn—
Death with every blow is giv'n!
By the battle's fury driv'n;
All their breasts with anger burn—
Death with every blow is giv'n!
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |