Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads Jacobite Ballads, &c. &c. By George W. Thornbury ... with illustrations by H. S. Marks |
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 | JACOBITE BALLADS. |
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 | Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads |  |
65
JACOBITE BALLADS.
67
THE STARVED POET.
“Dead, dead!”
So the old nurse careless said,
Letting fall his lifeless head;
Many shadows round the bed,
But not one mourner for the dead.
Dead, dead.
So the old nurse careless said,
Letting fall his lifeless head;
Many shadows round the bed,
But not one mourner for the dead.
Dead, dead.
Fame, fame!
The old clock's ticking just the same,
The ceiling reddens with the flame,
The wind sinks back from whence it came,
Moaning as if in very shame,
Fame, fame.
The old clock's ticking just the same,
The ceiling reddens with the flame,
The wind sinks back from whence it came,
Moaning as if in very shame,
Fame, fame.
“Gone to rest!”
Said the nurse, and crossed her breast,
Groping in the dusty chest,
Where the rat squealed from its nest,
“Nothing but a threadbare vest,
Verses, verses—all the rest.”
Said the nurse, and crossed her breast,
Groping in the dusty chest,
Where the rat squealed from its nest,
“Nothing but a threadbare vest,
Verses, verses—all the rest.”
68
“Write, write!
He would scribble all the night,
Was it wonder he grew white?
Crazed his brain, and dim his sight,
Scarcely knowing day from night.
Write, write!”
He would scribble all the night,
Was it wonder he grew white?
Crazed his brain, and dim his sight,
Scarcely knowing day from night.
Write, write!”
“Lord, lord!
Last week came Sir Richard Ford,
Playing with his silver sword,
Tapping on the empty board,
How at every jest he roared,
Lord, lord!”
Last week came Sir Richard Ford,
Playing with his silver sword,
Tapping on the empty board,
How at every jest he roared,
Lord, lord!”
“Bread, bread!”
Moaned the master who is dead,
“Though my pen is heavy lead,
And my lungs this morning bled,
I have children must be fed.
Bread, bread.”
Moaned the master who is dead,
“Though my pen is heavy lead,
And my lungs this morning bled,
I have children must be fed.
Bread, bread.”
“Debt, debt!
Half a guinea owing yet,
Many nights of wind and wet,
Many weary vigils set,
This is all I ever get.
Debt, debt!”
Half a guinea owing yet,
Many nights of wind and wet,
Many weary vigils set,
This is all I ever get.
Debt, debt!”
69
THE OLD PARK GATES.
(Mansion, temp. Charles II.)
There are two statues of cold grey stone,
Mossy and black with years,
Creatures that never feel love nor joy,
Nor ever shed human tears;
Shine sun, beat wind, blow hot, blow cold,
They stand stern looking on,
Taking no 'count of the days or hours,
Nor the ages past and gone.
Mossy and black with years,
Creatures that never feel love nor joy,
Nor ever shed human tears;
Shine sun, beat wind, blow hot, blow cold,
They stand stern looking on,
Taking no 'count of the days or hours,
Nor the ages past and gone.
Ruthless creatures of hard grey stone,
Guarding the old park-gates,
Firm on your throne-like pedestals,
Gazing calm-eyed as Fates;
Whether a bridal train laughs thro',
Or a coffin pass within,
Never a word and never a smile
At the silence or the din.
Guarding the old park-gates,
Firm on your throne-like pedestals,
Gazing calm-eyed as Fates;
Whether a bridal train laughs thro',
Or a coffin pass within,
Never a word and never a smile
At the silence or the din.
70
The gates stained red with iron rust,
Are twined with love-knots true,
Quaint winding cyphers mystical,
Still streaked with gold and blue.
There proudly round ramp herald beasts,
And round hang fruit and flowers;
But gapped and warped with lightning-stroke,
And the damp of cold night showers.
Are twined with love-knots true,
Quaint winding cyphers mystical,
Still streaked with gold and blue.
There proudly round ramp herald beasts,
And round hang fruit and flowers;
But gapped and warped with lightning-stroke,
And the damp of cold night showers.
On the slabs the figures trample,
Grow long dry nodding weeds,
And there the starling loves to build,
And there the robin feeds;
While, like blood-gouts, the rust-stains drip
Foul, on the pillar's base,
And night and day try sun and rain
The cypher to deface.
Grow long dry nodding weeds,
And there the starling loves to build,
And there the robin feeds;
While, like blood-gouts, the rust-stains drip
Foul, on the pillar's base,
And night and day try sun and rain
The cypher to deface.
No longer rolls the gilded coach
Down the long avenue,
Lit by the smoking torches' light
That glistens in the dew;
No longer through the massy gate,
Sweep banished cavaliers,
Stern men who kneel to kiss the ground,
Shedding some bitter tears.
Down the long avenue,
Lit by the smoking torches' light
That glistens in the dew;
No longer through the massy gate,
Sweep banished cavaliers,
Stern men who kneel to kiss the ground,
Shedding some bitter tears.
71
The house is down, the deer are dead—
The park's a lonely place.
The timid rabbits careless feed,
Unscared by human face:
But all day singing to himself,
As happy as a child,
The blackbird sits and prunes his wing,—
The spot has grown so wild.
The park's a lonely place.
The timid rabbits careless feed,
Unscared by human face:
But all day singing to himself,
As happy as a child,
The blackbird sits and prunes his wing,—
The spot has grown so wild.
God's curses on the drunkard's hand
That flung the spotted die!
Did he not hear the groan that shook
The vault where his fathers lie?
Blue lightning pierce the shrivelled heart
That never beat with pride.
To tread the cedar chamber where
His father's fathers died.
That flung the spotted die!
Did he not hear the groan that shook
The vault where his fathers lie?
Blue lightning pierce the shrivelled heart
That never beat with pride.
To tread the cedar chamber where
His father's fathers died.
The die was thrown; the manor-house
Shook from the roof to base,
The sallow portraits in the hall
Gazed with reproachful face:
Without, the old ancestral trees
Groaned loud as lightning-smit;
The herald's window sparkled out,
The moon shone full on it.
Shook from the roof to base,
The sallow portraits in the hall
Gazed with reproachful face:
Without, the old ancestral trees
Groaned loud as lightning-smit;
The herald's window sparkled out,
The moon shone full on it.
72
The fool!—a beggar through the gate
Creeps out with head hung down,
Not seeing how the guardian gods,
Upon their pillars frown.
He hears the winner's mocking laugh
Come ringing through the tree,—
One side the gate lies heaven,
One side flows misery.
Creeps out with head hung down,
Not seeing how the guardian gods,
Upon their pillars frown.
He hears the winner's mocking laugh
Come ringing through the tree,—
One side the gate lies heaven,
One side flows misery.
But had I time sufficient,
I could for hours relate
How Tory, Whig, and Jacobite
Have passed through yonder gate.
The lord with orange-ribbon
Bright at his button-hole,
Proud of the vote by which he sold
For a star—his body and soul.
I could for hours relate
How Tory, Whig, and Jacobite
Have passed through yonder gate.
The lord with orange-ribbon
Bright at his button-hole,
Proud of the vote by which he sold
For a star—his body and soul.
The gallant, bound for Derby,
With a white rose at his breast,
Returning pale and wounded,
The lace torn from his vest:
Or chaired the conquering Member
Born high above his peers,
With noisy acclamations,
And loud election cheers.
With a white rose at his breast,
Returning pale and wounded,
The lace torn from his vest:
Or chaired the conquering Member
Born high above his peers,
With noisy acclamations,
And loud election cheers.
73
Now on the iron crown that caps
The centre of the gate,
A robin comes, and in the sun,
Sings early and sings late.
It is the spirit of the place
Still wrung by a regret,—
Well may the stranger lingering by
Confess a sorrow yet.
The centre of the gate,
A robin comes, and in the sun,
Sings early and sings late.
It is the spirit of the place
Still wrung by a regret,—
Well may the stranger lingering by
Confess a sorrow yet.
Decay, and sin, and ruin,
Stare through the twilight grate,
Sad as the entrance of a vault,
With all its faded state;
The stains of tarnished gilding,
Its love-knot still untied,
And the silent statues standing fixed,
Asserting changeless pride.
Stare through the twilight grate,
Sad as the entrance of a vault,
With all its faded state;
The stains of tarnished gilding,
Its love-knot still untied,
And the silent statues standing fixed,
Asserting changeless pride.
And 'tis for this we toil and sweat.
And ply the sword and pen,—
Only to pass away at eve,
And be forgot of men.
Fools that we are, to gather flowers
That in our hands decay,—
To heap up mole-hills—to rear earth
Immortal,—for a day.
And ply the sword and pen,—
Only to pass away at eve,
And be forgot of men.
Fools that we are, to gather flowers
That in our hands decay,—
To heap up mole-hills—to rear earth
Immortal,—for a day.
74
THE THREE TROOPERS.
During the Protectorate.
Into the Devil tavern
Three booted troopers strode,
From spur to feather spotted and splashed
With the mud of a winter road.
In each of their cups they droped a crust,
And stared at the guests with a frown;
Then drew their swords, and roared for a toast.
“God send this Crum-well-down!”
Three booted troopers strode,
From spur to feather spotted and splashed
With the mud of a winter road.
In each of their cups they droped a crust,
And stared at the guests with a frown;
Then drew their swords, and roared for a toast.
“God send this Crum-well-down!”
A blue smoke rose from their pistol locks,
Their sword blades were still wet;
There were long red smears on their jerkins of buff,
As the table they overset.
Then into their cups they stirred the crusts,
And cursed old London town;
Then waved their swords, and drank with a stamp,
“God send this Crum-well-down!”
Their sword blades were still wet;
There were long red smears on their jerkins of buff,
As the table they overset.
Then into their cups they stirred the crusts,
And cursed old London town;
Then waved their swords, and drank with a stamp,
“God send this Crum-well-down!”
75
The 'prentice dropped his can of beer,
The host turned pale as a clout;
The ruby nose of the toping squires
Grew white at the wild men's shout.
Then into their cups they flung the crusts,
And showed their teeth with a frown;
They flashed their swords as they gave the toast,
“God send this Crum-well-down!”
The host turned pale as a clout;
The ruby nose of the toping squires
Grew white at the wild men's shout.
Then into their cups they flung the crusts,
And showed their teeth with a frown;
They flashed their swords as they gave the toast,
“God send this Crum-well-down!”
The gambler dropped his dog's-ear'd cards,
The waiting-women screamed,
As the light of the fire, like stains of blood,
On the wild men's sabres gleamed.
Then into their cups they splashed the crusts,
And cursed the fool of a town,
And leapt on the table, and roared a toast,
“God send this Crum-well-down!”
The waiting-women screamed,
As the light of the fire, like stains of blood,
On the wild men's sabres gleamed.
Then into their cups they splashed the crusts,
And cursed the fool of a town,
And leapt on the table, and roared a toast,
“God send this Crum-well-down!”
Till on a sudden fire-bells rang,
And the troopers sprang to horse;
The eldest muttered between his teeth,
Hot curses—deep and coarse.
In their stirrup cups they flung the crusts,
And cried as they spurred through town,
With their keen swords drawn and their pistols cocked,
“God send this Crum-well-down!”
And the troopers sprang to horse;
The eldest muttered between his teeth,
Hot curses—deep and coarse.
In their stirrup cups they flung the crusts,
And cried as they spurred through town,
With their keen swords drawn and their pistols cocked,
“God send this Crum-well-down!”
76
Away they dashed through Temple Bar,
Their red cloaks flowing free,
Their scabbards clashed, each back-piece shone—
None liked to touch the three.
The silver cups that held the crusts
They flung to the startled town,
Shouting again, with a blaze of swords,
“God send this Crum-well-down!”
Their red cloaks flowing free,
Their scabbards clashed, each back-piece shone—
None liked to touch the three.
The silver cups that held the crusts
They flung to the startled town,
Shouting again, with a blaze of swords,
“God send this Crum-well-down!”
77
THE DANCE ROUND THE PLAGUE-PIT.
'Twas when the plague was mowing
God's creatures down in heaps,
That five good men of the Temple
Awoke from their drunken sleeps,
And flask in hand, and arm in arm,
Went over the fields together,
To see the plague-pit at Mary-la-bonne,
In the bright and golden weather.
God's creatures down in heaps,
That five good men of the Temple
Awoke from their drunken sleeps,
And flask in hand, and arm in arm,
Went over the fields together,
To see the plague-pit at Mary-la-bonne,
In the bright and golden weather.
They strolled along, and at every stile
Drank to some beauty's health;
And on their knees (good Lord, to see
Such uses made of wealth!)
They pledged the king, and toasted the duke,
And hailed the Muses nine;
At every death-bell tolling
Held up to the sun the wine.
Drank to some beauty's health;
And on their knees (good Lord, to see
Such uses made of wealth!)
They pledged the king, and toasted the duke,
And hailed the Muses nine;
At every death-bell tolling
Held up to the sun the wine.
78
On the green grass and the cowslip flowers
The sad, calm sunshine slept;
Then one laughed out, and another sighed,
And a third man fairly wept:
For one had lost his wife and child,
And one his younger brother;
A third had fled but yesterday
From the black corse of his mother.
The sad, calm sunshine slept;
Then one laughed out, and another sighed,
And a third man fairly wept:
For one had lost his wife and child,
And one his younger brother;
A third had fled but yesterday
From the black corse of his mother.
And when the milk-girls singing passed,
They kissed them one and all:
“We are Death's five good brothers,
Very good men and tall.”
They flourished their swords and capered,
And such mad antics played:
Thinking them madmen broke away,
Fast flew each milking-maid.
They kissed them one and all:
“We are Death's five good brothers,
Very good men and tall.”
They flourished their swords and capered,
And such mad antics played:
Thinking them madmen broke away,
Fast flew each milking-maid.
'Twas very quiet in the old churchyard;
The bees in the nettle flowers
Moved not; the swallows flew
Silent between the showers.
But the chasm, black and gaping,
No cloud or sunshine lit:
It struck them cold to the heart and bone
To see the path to it.
The bees in the nettle flowers
Moved not; the swallows flew
Silent between the showers.
But the chasm, black and gaping,
No cloud or sunshine lit:
It struck them cold to the heart and bone
To see the path to it.
79
Trodden like any highway
Over the meadow grass,
Where the dead-cart wheels by night and day,
Creak rumbling as they pass.
Through suburb road and village street,
Where playing boys stand still,
Where ploughmen stop to hear the bell,
And the white face stares from the mill.
Over the meadow grass,
Where the dead-cart wheels by night and day,
Creak rumbling as they pass.
Through suburb road and village street,
Where playing boys stand still,
Where ploughmen stop to hear the bell,
And the white face stares from the mill.
Oh, how they laugh to see the pit
So black and deep below!
Yet above the sky was blue and clear,
And the clouds were all of a glow.
And the sunrise, bright and rosy,
Turned the distant roofs to flame;
And one looked long, with pallid cheeks,
And called the rest by name.
So black and deep below!
Yet above the sky was blue and clear,
And the clouds were all of a glow.
And the sunrise, bright and rosy,
Turned the distant roofs to flame;
And one looked long, with pallid cheeks,
And called the rest by name.
One of the band was grey and wan,
Another was fresh and fair,
And on his comely shoulders fell
A flood of dark brown hair.
A third was sour and sneering,
Thin lip, and cold grey eye;
The last were fat-cheeked gluttons,
Who dreaded much to die.
Another was fresh and fair,
And on his comely shoulders fell
A flood of dark brown hair.
A third was sour and sneering,
Thin lip, and cold grey eye;
The last were fat-cheeked gluttons,
Who dreaded much to die.
80
“I see the old curmudgeon,”
Cried one, with a drunken scream,
And flung his glass at the mocking eyes
Of the dead, that glisten and gleam.
“My father turned me over
To beg or rob on the road;
Good-day, old lad, with the drooping jaw,
D'ye like your new abode?”
Cried one, with a drunken scream,
And flung his glass at the mocking eyes
Of the dead, that glisten and gleam.
“My father turned me over
To beg or rob on the road;
Good-day, old lad, with the drooping jaw,
D'ye like your new abode?”
“I swear it moves,” cried one, aghast,
And let his full glass fall:
“Oh, God! if my gentle brother Will
Should be there at the bottom of all!
They writhe—egad, they struggle—
Like fish in a bellying net;
I'd rather than forty shillings
We never here had met.”
And let his full glass fall:
“Oh, God! if my gentle brother Will
Should be there at the bottom of all!
They writhe—egad, they struggle—
Like fish in a bellying net;
I'd rather than forty shillings
We never here had met.”
“There's Chloe yonder, sleeping,
Her arms round a dead man's neck;
I call her twice, and kiss my hand,
But she comes not at my beck,
Her cheeks are still warm crimson,
The rouge is not washed off,
But her curls are lost, and the bald-pate hag
Is fit for a sexton's scoff.”
Her arms round a dead man's neck;
I call her twice, and kiss my hand,
But she comes not at my beck,
Her cheeks are still warm crimson,
The rouge is not washed off,
But her curls are lost, and the bald-pate hag
Is fit for a sexton's scoff.”
81
The sun in the old church window
Glistened with wavering gold,
Calm praying figures carved in stone
You may through the panes behold.
The poplar slowly wavered,
And stately bent its head,
As if in homage to the wind,
Or reverence to the dead.
Glistened with wavering gold,
Calm praying figures carved in stone
You may through the panes behold.
The poplar slowly wavered,
And stately bent its head,
As if in homage to the wind,
Or reverence to the dead.
“Sink me!” cried one, “Canary
Will wash our dull eyes clear,
And brace our hearts. You quakers,
I can see nothing here
But a hole in the ground, and faces pale,
That seem to grin and stare.
Let us away—I feel a qualm—
There's death in the hot thick air.”
Will wash our dull eyes clear,
And brace our hearts. You quakers,
I can see nothing here
But a hole in the ground, and faces pale,
That seem to grin and stare.
Let us away—I feel a qualm—
There's death in the hot thick air.”
“Rot me!” a third voice bellows,
And flung down a shower of wine;
“This rain'll wake the fools to life,
And make their white lips shine.
There, in a snug nook crouching,
I see my mother sits,
She's rather warped and shrunken,
She was always whining in fits.”
And flung down a shower of wine;
“This rain'll wake the fools to life,
And make their white lips shine.
There, in a snug nook crouching,
I see my mother sits,
She's rather warped and shrunken,
She was always whining in fits.”
82
“Born devil,” cried another,
“My little Will lies there,
His blue eyes cold and faded,
Red worms in his golden hair;
Crushed by those black heaps livid,
Without a coffin or shroud,
Thrown in, dog-like, without a prayer.”
The strong man wept aloud.
“My little Will lies there,
His blue eyes cold and faded,
Red worms in his golden hair;
Crushed by those black heaps livid,
Without a coffin or shroud,
Thrown in, dog-like, without a prayer.”
The strong man wept aloud.
“Excuse me now proposing,
My gallant friends, a toast:
Here's a health to good old Rowley—
Long may he rule the roast—
To Nell and Mall, the pretty Whig,
The queen of Hearts and all!”
The sneerer knelt, and “In a grove”
Began to shout and bawl:
My gallant friends, a toast:
Here's a health to good old Rowley—
Long may he rule the roast—
To Nell and Mall, the pretty Whig,
The queen of Hearts and all!”
The sneerer knelt, and “In a grove”
Began to shout and bawl:
“We all go mad together,
If once we dare to think”—
He dashed out the wine with a shaking hand
And staring eyeballs—“Drink—
Drink till the brain grows fiery,
Till the veins run o'er with joy;
When I'm drunk, lads, then twist my neck,
And let me join my boy.”
If once we dare to think”—
He dashed out the wine with a shaking hand
And staring eyeballs—“Drink—
Drink till the brain grows fiery,
Till the veins run o'er with joy;
When I'm drunk, lads, then twist my neck,
And let me join my boy.”
83
Then one pulled out the loaded dice,
And threw them on a tomb;
And another flung some greasy cards
Filched from a tavern room.
And all the while the lark rose up,
Gay singing overhead,
As if the earth were newly made,
And Adam were not dead.
And threw them on a tomb;
And another flung some greasy cards
Filched from a tavern room.
And all the while the lark rose up,
Gay singing overhead,
As if the earth were newly made,
And Adam were not dead.
“Room, room for a dance!—the sexton
With a dead-cart comes not yet—
A saraband or a minuet:
Well are we five lads met!
Come, pass the flask, and fill the cup,
Quick send the bumper round,
And drink a health to our friends and foes,
So snugly under ground.”
With a dead-cart comes not yet—
A saraband or a minuet:
Well are we five lads met!
Come, pass the flask, and fill the cup,
Quick send the bumper round,
And drink a health to our friends and foes,
So snugly under ground.”
Then round the plague-pit footing
A measure one or two,
With scarf and spangled feather,
Roses on every shoe,
All hand-in-hand, in circles,
With many a mad grimace,
Round the hole, thick black with bodies,
The drunken dancers race.
A measure one or two,
With scarf and spangled feather,
Roses on every shoe,
All hand-in-hand, in circles,
With many a mad grimace,
Round the hole, thick black with bodies,
The drunken dancers race.
84
Round and round in madness
The noisy dancers flew,
Shaking off hat and feather,
Kicking off stocking and shoe;
But a quicker reel flung one man in,
Swift as a stone from a sling;
Down—down—down! In the loathsome pit
They hear the fellow sing.
The noisy dancers flew,
Shaking off hat and feather,
Kicking off stocking and shoe;
But a quicker reel flung one man in,
Swift as a stone from a sling;
Down—down—down! In the loathsome pit
They hear the fellow sing.
He holds his glass to a dead maid's mouth.
And pledges the plague-struck men;
He shouts to his fellows far above
To fill the bowl again.
But a sudden shiver seizes him,
And he leaps at the side of the grave,
Then weeps and screams for life and help,
But none of them care to save.
And pledges the plague-struck men;
He shouts to his fellows far above
To fill the bowl again.
But a sudden shiver seizes him,
And he leaps at the side of the grave,
Then weeps and screams for life and help,
But none of them care to save.
They lie down flat at the brink of the pit,
And hold the red glass up,
They drink his health, and fling in his eyes
The dregs of the empty cup.
He draws his sword in madness,
Hews at the dead around,
And tries to carve out steps to climb
In the crumbling, reeking ground.
And hold the red glass up,
They drink his health, and fling in his eyes
The dregs of the empty cup.
He draws his sword in madness,
Hews at the dead around,
And tries to carve out steps to climb
In the crumbling, reeking ground.
85
The dance renews with frantic speed,
They leap round the open pit,
Till another reels, with a cry of “Lost!”
Far in the womb of it.
Then at him, like a panther,
The first who lay there leaps:
They roll and fight, and curse and stab,
Tossing the dead in heaps.
They leap round the open pit,
Till another reels, with a cry of “Lost!”
Far in the womb of it.
Then at him, like a panther,
The first who lay there leaps:
They roll and fight, and curse and stab,
Tossing the dead in heaps.
Now, looking down, the dancers laugh,
And clap their hands, and sing,
Just as they'd goad a bull and dog
In the Paris Garden ring.
A groan—then perfect silence—
Both wretches are struck dead—
One smitten by the vapour,
The other with cloven head.
And clap their hands, and sing,
Just as they'd goad a bull and dog
In the Paris Garden ring.
A groan—then perfect silence—
Both wretches are struck dead—
One smitten by the vapour,
The other with cloven head.
The dead cart comes in the heat of noon,
The dancers were all dead,
And each had sunk like men asleep,
The earth-heap for a bed.
“Kind gentlemen,” the sexton said,
“To save me trouble sure,
Food'll be all the cheaper
For so many mouths the fewer.”
The dancers were all dead,
And each had sunk like men asleep,
The earth-heap for a bed.
“Kind gentlemen,” the sexton said,
“To save me trouble sure,
Food'll be all the cheaper
For so many mouths the fewer.”
86
TOM OF TEN THOUSAND.
There is hard-riding Dickey,
The Lord of Mount Surrey,
Gallants in blue and gold,
Purple and murrey.
There are Jacobites, scores of 'em,
Whigs twice as many;
But Tom of Ten Thousand is
Gayest of any.
The Lord of Mount Surrey,
Gallants in blue and gold,
Purple and murrey.
There are Jacobites, scores of 'em,
Whigs twice as many;
But Tom of Ten Thousand is
Gayest of any.
He is so tall and lithe,
Lightsome and limber,
Ready to face the gate,
Breasting the timber,
Rushing through bullfinches
Dreaded by many,
Tom of Ten Thousand is
Boldest of any.
Lightsome and limber,
Ready to face the gate,
Breasting the timber,
Rushing through bullfinches
Dreaded by many,
Tom of Ten Thousand is
Boldest of any.
87
Over the hedge and stile,
Over the paling,
Over the double fence,
Bank, brook, or railing,
Switching the rasper, sir,
Though the ground's fenny,
Tom of Ten Thousand is
Bravest of any.
Over the paling,
Over the double fence,
Bank, brook, or railing,
Switching the rasper, sir,
Though the ground's fenny,
Tom of Ten Thousand is
Bravest of any.
Oh, but to see him, boys,
In the wood groping,
Then breaking through the bush,
Start for the open,
Over the plough and clay,
Checking so many,
Tom of Ten Thousand is
Staunchest of any.
In the wood groping,
Then breaking through the bush,
Start for the open,
Over the plough and clay,
Checking so many,
Tom of Ten Thousand is
Staunchest of any.
Fording the river deep,
Swollen and rapid,
All other riding, boys,
Seeming but vapid.
Making the short cut,
That's sighed for by many,
Tom of Ten Thousand is
Fleetest of any.
Swollen and rapid,
All other riding, boys,
Seeming but vapid.
Making the short cut,
That's sighed for by many,
Tom of Ten Thousand is
Fleetest of any.
88
Swift as a swallow,
Black Sloven's gelding,
Bred in the Grafton mews
Out of old Belding.
Light on the back of him,
Envied by many
Tom of Ten Thousand is
Swiftest of any.
Black Sloven's gelding,
Bred in the Grafton mews
Out of old Belding.
Light on the back of him,
Envied by many
Tom of Ten Thousand is
Swiftest of any.
After the music,
No one more willing,
Though the wood's fen, and swamp,
And the pace killing.
Cursing and spurring, sirs,
Swifter than any,
Tom of Ten Thousand is
Surest of any.
No one more willing,
Though the wood's fen, and swamp,
And the pace killing.
Cursing and spurring, sirs,
Swifter than any,
Tom of Ten Thousand is
Surest of any.
He'll be brought home at last,
With his feet foremost,
Though the heart-blood of him
Now runs the warmest.
No! coming to grief
Is the fortune of many,
But Tom of Ten Thousand is
Safest of any.
With his feet foremost,
Though the heart-blood of him
Now runs the warmest.
No! coming to grief
Is the fortune of many,
But Tom of Ten Thousand is
Safest of any.
89
THE ORANGEMAN'S CASTLE.
The bright flag of orange
Blew over the town,
Shone over the houses
Its “Bible and Crown.”
On the third of November,
There was beating of drum,
And moving of bayonets,
Round the Castle of Crum.
Blew over the town,
Shone over the houses
Its “Bible and Crown.”
On the third of November,
There was beating of drum,
And moving of bayonets,
Round the Castle of Crum.
In splints flew the rampart,
The casements fell in;
There were screaming and groans,
And confessions of sin;
The moat splashed with shot,
But we plied at the drum,
And the orange blew proud
On the Castle of Crum.
The casements fell in;
There were screaming and groans,
And confessions of sin;
The moat splashed with shot,
But we plied at the drum,
And the orange blew proud
On the Castle of Crum.
90
Hedged round with the cannon,
In a circle of fire,
Only the hotter
Grew Protestant ire.
We shot fiercely and fast,
As we beat on the drum,
At the forest of tents,
Round the Castle of Crum.
In a circle of fire,
Only the hotter
Grew Protestant ire.
We shot fiercely and fast,
As we beat on the drum,
At the forest of tents,
Round the Castle of Crum.
We fired; and a flame
Rose from hovel and tent;
The castle wall fell,
And the flag-staff was rent.
Their battery burst
At the sound of our drum
But the orange flew still
On the Castle of Crum.
Rose from hovel and tent;
The castle wall fell,
And the flag-staff was rent.
Their battery burst
At the sound of our drum
But the orange flew still
On the Castle of Crum.
The red shot at night
Fell on roof and on head;
We built up the loops
With the dying and dead.
Though all wounded and weak,
We still beat on the drum,
And looked at the orange
On the turrets of Crum.
Fell on roof and on head;
We built up the loops
With the dying and dead.
Though all wounded and weak,
We still beat on the drum,
And looked at the orange
On the turrets of Crum.
91
We were weary and weak,
And our food was all gone;
Still we knelt down to fire
At the thick of the throng.
When far in the distance,
They beat on the drum,
And the siege it was raised,
Of the Castle of Crum.
And our food was all gone;
Still we knelt down to fire
At the thick of the throng.
When far in the distance,
They beat on the drum,
And the siege it was raised,
Of the Castle of Crum.
92
THE FIGHT AT THE MILL-BRIDGE.
Bull-dogs we were! down our long hair
Fell on our lace collars, costly and fair;
Swords in our sheath, we tore over the heath,
And swam the deep river, boys, blades in our teeth;
Rode with a will to the fire-flashing mill,
Full of black Orangemen, shouting for Will,
Twenty a-breast, and all gallantly dress'd,
Feather of red on the top of each crest.
Fell on our lace collars, costly and fair;
Swords in our sheath, we tore over the heath,
And swam the deep river, boys, blades in our teeth;
Rode with a will to the fire-flashing mill,
Full of black Orangemen, shouting for Will,
Twenty a-breast, and all gallantly dress'd,
Feather of red on the top of each crest.
“Give them the steel,” cried fighting O'Neal,
“Ply them with shot till they break or they reel;”
Here are the Blues, too, just as they use,
Kilts in platoons, and the lads with the trews:
The bridge of Tyrone heard many a groan
Of dying and stabbed o'er the parapet thrown,
As twenty a-breast, we were gallantly dress'd,
Feather of red on each beaver and crest.
“Ply them with shot till they break or they reel;”
Here are the Blues, too, just as they use,
Kilts in platoons, and the lads with the trews:
The bridge of Tyrone heard many a groan
Of dying and stabbed o'er the parapet thrown,
As twenty a-breast, we were gallantly dress'd,
Feather of red on each beaver and crest.
93
We fought up the road, and wherever we trode
Our hoof-prints were red, as we slash'd and we rode
We split up the door, burned to ashes the floor,
Fired till their saddles grew sloppy with gore.
Can a Jacobite lag when the Orangeman's flag
Waves in his eyes? We filled foraging bag,
Then twenty a breast, rode gallantly dress'd,
Feather of red on our beaver and crest.
Our hoof-prints were red, as we slash'd and we rode
We split up the door, burned to ashes the floor,
Fired till their saddles grew sloppy with gore.
Can a Jacobite lag when the Orangeman's flag
Waves in his eyes? We filled foraging bag,
Then twenty a breast, rode gallantly dress'd,
Feather of red on our beaver and crest.
94
THE FOPS AT THE BOYNE.
Down went hat and feather,
On poured red and blue,
The scented wigs were heading
The banner, though it flew:
Bright shone the purple pennon
All the squadrons through.
On poured red and blue,
The scented wigs were heading
The banner, though it flew:
Bright shone the purple pennon
All the squadrons through.
Gay as in the ring in London,
Laughing as the shot
Tore the ribbons, blue and orange,
When the fire grew hot;
“Salamanders!” cried the trooper,
“All the merry lot.”
Laughing as the shot
Tore the ribbons, blue and orange,
When the fire grew hot;
“Salamanders!” cried the trooper,
“All the merry lot.”
“Fire-drakes ford the Irish river,”
Panting cried Mackay;
Then the splashing and the gurgle
As the waters fly:
Some were wading to the ankle,
Some to full mid-thigh.
Panting cried Mackay;
Then the splashing and the gurgle
As the waters fly:
Some were wading to the ankle,
Some to full mid-thigh.
95
Such a flood of blades and feathers,
Splashed into the tide;
Walled with fire-flames, shone the river,
Red on either side;
A crash and blaze, and bragging France
Fled fast with all her pride.
Splashed into the tide;
Walled with fire-flames, shone the river,
Red on either side;
A crash and blaze, and bragging France
Fled fast with all her pride.
Out the lace cravats were blowing,
Spotted wet with red;
Black the wigs that swept the hot steel,
On the broad chest spread:
Red the stars and red the ribbons
Flaunting on the dead.
Spotted wet with red;
Black the wigs that swept the hot steel,
On the broad chest spread:
Red the stars and red the ribbons
Flaunting on the dead.
Combing wigs and brushing velvet,
Rubbing spots from steel,
Wiping saddles, knotting bridles,
Still they led the reel,
As the gunners, laughing by,
Strain the cannon wheel.
Rubbing spots from steel,
Wiping saddles, knotting bridles,
Still they led the reel,
As the gunners, laughing by,
Strain the cannon wheel.
There, amid the pale and dying,
Foamed the King's champagne;
“A toast, ‘the Queen of Diamonds,’
And may she rule and reign:”
Some that are propp'd with dead men, sit
Screaming with stabs of pain.
Foamed the King's champagne;
“A toast, ‘the Queen of Diamonds,’
And may she rule and reign:”
Some that are propp'd with dead men, sit
Screaming with stabs of pain.
96
THE JACOBITES' CLUB.
One threw an orange in the air,
And caught it on his sword;
Another crunched the yellow peel,
With his red heel on the board;
A third man cried, “When Jackson comes
Into his large estate,
I'll pave the old hall down in Kent,
With golden bits of eight.”
And caught it on his sword;
Another crunched the yellow peel,
With his red heel on the board;
A third man cried, “When Jackson comes
Into his large estate,
I'll pave the old hall down in Kent,
With golden bits of eight.”
One turning with a meaning wink,
Fast double locked the door,
Then held a letter to the fire—
It was all blank before,
But now it's ruled with crimson lines,
And cyphers odd and quaint;
They cluster round, and nod, and laugh,
As one invokes a saint,
Fast double locked the door,
Then held a letter to the fire—
It was all blank before,
But now it's ruled with crimson lines,
And cyphers odd and quaint;
They cluster round, and nod, and laugh,
As one invokes a saint,
97
He pulls a black wig from his head;
He's shaven like a priest;
He holds his finger to his nose,
And smiles, “The wind blows east,
The Dutch canals are frozen, sirs;
I don't say anything,
But when you play at ombre next,
Mind that I lead a king.”
He's shaven like a priest;
He holds his finger to his nose,
And smiles, “The wind blows east,
The Dutch canals are frozen, sirs;
I don't say anything,
But when you play at ombre next,
Mind that I lead a king.”
“Last night at Kensington I spent,
'Twas gay as any fair;
Lord! how they stared to find that bill
Stuck on the royal chair.
Some fools cried ‘Treason!’—some, ‘A plot!’
I slipped behind a screen,
And when the guards come fussing in,
Sat chatting with the Queen.”
'Twas gay as any fair;
Lord! how they stared to find that bill
Stuck on the royal chair.
Some fools cried ‘Treason!’—some, ‘A plot!’
I slipped behind a screen,
And when the guards come fussing in,
Sat chatting with the Queen.”
“I,” cried a third, “was printing songs,
In a garret in St. Giles',
When I heard the watchman at the door,
And flew up on the tiles.
The press was lowered into the vault,
The types into a drain:
I think you'll own, my trusty sirs,
I have a ready brain.”
In a garret in St. Giles',
When I heard the watchman at the door,
And flew up on the tiles.
The press was lowered into the vault,
The types into a drain:
I think you'll own, my trusty sirs,
I have a ready brain.”
98
A frightened whisper at the door,
A bell rings—then a shot:
“Shift, boys, the Orangers are come;
Pity! the punch is hot.”
A clash of swords—a shout—a scream,
And all abreast in force;
The Jacobites, some twenty strong,
Break through and take to horse.
A bell rings—then a shot:
“Shift, boys, the Orangers are come;
Pity! the punch is hot.”
A clash of swords—a shout—a scream,
And all abreast in force;
The Jacobites, some twenty strong,
Break through and take to horse.
99
THE CALVES'-HEAD CLUB.
(Charles the Second's reign.)
With calf's head on a stately dish
The landlord hurried in,
A bitter smile crept round the board,
But never shout nor din;
Then wine from the cobwebb'd cellar,
Came in the wattled flask,
And the man who sat at the table end
Looked grim in a velvet mask.
The landlord hurried in,
A bitter smile crept round the board,
But never shout nor din;
Then wine from the cobwebb'd cellar,
Came in the wattled flask,
And the man who sat at the table end
Looked grim in a velvet mask.
With cautious step the chairman rose,
Slipp'd softly over the floor;
With a silver nail that hung from his neck
He clamp'd the oaken door.
But first they brought a roasted pike,
With a gudgeon in his jaw—
Type of the way that nations lie,
Torn in a tyrant's maw.
Slipp'd softly over the floor;
With a silver nail that hung from his neck
He clamp'd the oaken door.
But first they brought a roasted pike,
With a gudgeon in his jaw—
Type of the way that nations lie,
Torn in a tyrant's maw.
100
Then a second door they surely locked,
Threw the key in the red-hot fire.
But they spoke in murmurs soft and low,
Scarce than a whisper higher.
'Twas the thirtieth of the month, at night,
In a tavern near Whitehall,
That a man in a mask, on a pale calf's head,
A red wine-stream let fall.
Threw the key in the red-hot fire.
But they spoke in murmurs soft and low,
Scarce than a whisper higher.
'Twas the thirtieth of the month, at night,
In a tavern near Whitehall,
That a man in a mask, on a pale calf's head,
A red wine-stream let fall.
The man of the mask, with a solemn air,
As an augur would have done,
Hewed in parts, with a strong broad knife,
The head, and gave each one.
They had scarcely drank three cups of wine
When open burst the door:
There was fighting at the table end,
And stabbing on the floor.
As an augur would have done,
Hewed in parts, with a strong broad knife,
The head, and gave each one.
They had scarcely drank three cups of wine
When open burst the door:
There was fighting at the table end,
And stabbing on the floor.
Loud cries of “Zion! sword of God!
Now hew this Baal down!”
With “Sink me! use your pistols!
And fire the cuckold town!”
The man in the mask flung down a bench
Set back unto the wall,
Flung a heavy flask at the foremost men,
And blew a silver call.
Now hew this Baal down!”
With “Sink me! use your pistols!
And fire the cuckold town!”
The man in the mask flung down a bench
Set back unto the wall,
Flung a heavy flask at the foremost men,
And blew a silver call.
101
There were blood-pools mingled with the wine,
Red broken glass and swords,
Gay feathers wet, in brave men's gore,
Flapping upon the boards
And that day week, at Tyburn tree,
Ten “calves' heads” drain'd a flask;
But they never touch'd, with villain rope,
The neck of the man in the mask.
Red broken glass and swords,
Gay feathers wet, in brave men's gore,
Flapping upon the boards
And that day week, at Tyburn tree,
Ten “calves' heads” drain'd a flask;
But they never touch'd, with villain rope,
The neck of the man in the mask.
For him they built a scaffold
On the old blood-mantled hill:
He stepped up bold, as a marriage guest
To a marriage banquet will;—
Bowed three times to the hissing crowd,
Bid the headsman do his task;
And, flinging some gold to the rolling mob,
So died the man in the mask.
On the old blood-mantled hill:
He stepped up bold, as a marriage guest
To a marriage banquet will;—
Bowed three times to the hissing crowd,
Bid the headsman do his task;
And, flinging some gold to the rolling mob,
So died the man in the mask.
102
THE WHITE ROSE OVER THE WATER.
(Edinburgh. 1744.)
The old men sat with hats pulled down,
Their claret cups before them:
Broad shadows hid their sullen eyes,
The tavern lamps shone o'er them,
As a brimming bowl, with crystal fill'd,
Came borne by the landlord's daughter,
Who wore in her bosom the fair white rose,
That grew best over the water.
Their claret cups before them:
Broad shadows hid their sullen eyes,
The tavern lamps shone o'er them,
As a brimming bowl, with crystal fill'd,
Came borne by the landlord's daughter,
Who wore in her bosom the fair white rose,
That grew best over the water.
Then all leap'd up, and join'd their hands
With hearty clasp and greeting,
The brimming cups, outstretched by all,
Over the wide bowl meeting.
“A health,” they cried, “to the witching eyes
Of Kate, the landlord's daughter!
But don't forget the white, white rose
That grows best over the water.”
With hearty clasp and greeting,
The brimming cups, outstretched by all,
Over the wide bowl meeting.
“A health,” they cried, “to the witching eyes
Of Kate, the landlord's daughter!
But don't forget the white, white rose
That grows best over the water.”
103
Each others' cups they touch'd all round,
The last red drop outpouring;
Then with a cry that warm'd the blood,
One heart-born chorus roaring—
“Let the glass go round, to pretty Kate,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter.
But never forget the white, white rose
That grows best over the water.”
The last red drop outpouring;
Then with a cry that warm'd the blood,
One heart-born chorus roaring—
“Let the glass go round, to pretty Kate,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter.
But never forget the white, white rose
That grows best over the water.”
Then hats flew up and swords sprang out,
And lusty rang the chorus—
“Never,” they cried, “while Scots are Scots,
And the broad Frith's before us.”
A ruby ring the glasses shine
As they toast the landlord's daughter,
Because she wore the white, white rose
That grew best over the water.
And lusty rang the chorus—
“Never,” they cried, “while Scots are Scots,
And the broad Frith's before us.”
A ruby ring the glasses shine
As they toast the landlord's daughter,
Because she wore the white, white rose
That grew best over the water.
A poet cried, “Our thistle's brave,
With all its stings and prickles;
The shamrock with its holy leaf
Is spar'd by Irish sickles.
But bumpers round, for what are these
To Kate, the landlord's daughter,
Who wears at her bosom the rose as white,
That grows best over the water?”
With all its stings and prickles;
The shamrock with its holy leaf
Is spar'd by Irish sickles.
But bumpers round, for what are these
To Kate, the landlord's daughter,
Who wears at her bosom the rose as white,
That grows best over the water?”
104
They dash'd the glasses at the wall,
No lip might touch them after;
The toast had sanctified the cups
That smashed against the rafter;
Then chairs thrown back, they up again,
To toast the landlord's daughter.
But never forgot the white, white rose
That grew best over the water.
No lip might touch them after;
The toast had sanctified the cups
That smashed against the rafter;
Then chairs thrown back, they up again,
To toast the landlord's daughter.
But never forgot the white, white rose
That grew best over the water.
105
THE FIGHT IN THE HAWKING FIELD.
Pipes blowing, drums beating, colours flying, cries and laughter,
Ribbons driving, bells jingling, merry cheering fore and after,
Mad spurring, hot whipping, and all because Sir William Ray
Has matched his dun mare Sorel against Sir Robert's bay.
Ribbons driving, bells jingling, merry cheering fore and after,
Mad spurring, hot whipping, and all because Sir William Ray
Has matched his dun mare Sorel against Sir Robert's bay.
Hawks whistling, scarves blowing, horns blasting, hither, thither,
Horses neighing, kicking, fretting, at the gall upon their wither,
Strap-pulling, stirrup-lowering, eyes looking at the sky,
When, with a blast of trumpets, they let the falcon fly,
Horses neighing, kicking, fretting, at the gall upon their wither,
Strap-pulling, stirrup-lowering, eyes looking at the sky,
When, with a blast of trumpets, they let the falcon fly,
106
Cloud-piercing, wind-scorning, lightning-pinioned, flew the falcon,
High soaring, proud of plumage, keen-talon'd for the hawking.
There was whooping, yelling, shouting, because Sir Robert swore,
A braver bird, from gentle wrist, flew never up before.
High soaring, proud of plumage, keen-talon'd for the hawking.
There was whooping, yelling, shouting, because Sir Robert swore,
A braver bird, from gentle wrist, flew never up before.
White against the dark sky, all a-smother with grey clouds,
When the sullen mists of autumn hung upon the woods in shrouds;—
Rose the falcon piercing heaven, arrow-swift, and fiery eyed,
High above the swelling vapours and the sunset's burning tide.
When the sullen mists of autumn hung upon the woods in shrouds;—
Rose the falcon piercing heaven, arrow-swift, and fiery eyed,
High above the swelling vapours and the sunset's burning tide.
Drums beating, pipes blowing, trumpet-banners, how they fluttered,
Pages gambolled, ladies whispered, falconers looked black and muttered;
And all because Sir Robert Grey drew off his falcon's hood,
And flung him up to catch his mate, above the Castle wood.
Pages gambolled, ladies whispered, falconers looked black and muttered;
And all because Sir Robert Grey drew off his falcon's hood,
And flung him up to catch his mate, above the Castle wood.
107
Now above the tallest poplar, now above the last red cloud—
“Ah! should not any gentleman of such a bird be proud?”
Now on his towering prey he falls, a smiting thunder-bolt,
And struck him in a bloody leap, stone dead upon the holt.
“Ah! should not any gentleman of such a bird be proud?”
Now on his towering prey he falls, a smiting thunder-bolt,
And struck him in a bloody leap, stone dead upon the holt.
“Ill-doing!” cruel!” “knavish!” “foul-playing!” cry a dozen,
“Fall upon them!” “this a wager?” “draw!” “don't let the villains cozen!”
“Scurvy practice!” “hear me!” “fell him!” “listen!” “tap the cuckold's blood!”
So cried the rabble, undulating, like a spring-tide at the flood.
“Fall upon them!” “this a wager?” “draw!” “don't let the villains cozen!”
“Scurvy practice!” “hear me!” “fell him!” “listen!” “tap the cuckold's blood!”
So cried the rabble, undulating, like a spring-tide at the flood.
Then flew out in face of heaven, scarcely less than thirty swords
In a circle round Sir Robert, who grew angry at these frauds.
Horns blowing, drums beating, horsemen hurried in and out,
Calm hands were laid on hasty weapons, as the murmur grew a shout.
In a circle round Sir Robert, who grew angry at these frauds.
Horns blowing, drums beating, horsemen hurried in and out,
Calm hands were laid on hasty weapons, as the murmur grew a shout.
108
There was pawing and curvetting, snatches at the helmet laces;
There was slashing off of feathers, long gloves flung in troopers' faces.
Pulling strong men from their saddles, gashes bleeding at their breast—
Groans and screaming, cries and clamours, running east and running west.
There was slashing off of feathers, long gloves flung in troopers' faces.
Pulling strong men from their saddles, gashes bleeding at their breast—
Groans and screaming, cries and clamours, running east and running west.
In among the press and struggle rode Sir Robert on his sable,
He had hand on every gullet, and he swore down all the Babel.
When he struck, flew out the crimson, on the satin and the lace;
When he frown'd, a coward pallor spread on every brawler's face.
He had hand on every gullet, and he swore down all the Babel.
When he struck, flew out the crimson, on the satin and the lace;
When he frown'd, a coward pallor spread on every brawler's face.
Tearing trumpet from a villain puffing out his swollen cheek,
Striking down a dozen weapons, stopping one who would fain speak,
Spurring, pushing, till curvettings bore him to Sir William's side;
Then he smote him on the jaw-bone in his anger and his pride.
Striking down a dozen weapons, stopping one who would fain speak,
Spurring, pushing, till curvettings bore him to Sir William's side;
Then he smote him on the jaw-bone in his anger and his pride.
109
Bridle-cutting, there is stabbing, rapiers flashing keen and deadly,
Arrows flying, bullets ringing, swords dripping, bright and redly,
Beaver-chopping, wound-making, steel-crossing, clishing, clashing,
Gun-loading, match-lighting, yellow light of sulphur flashing.
Arrows flying, bullets ringing, swords dripping, bright and redly,
Beaver-chopping, wound-making, steel-crossing, clishing, clashing,
Gun-loading, match-lighting, yellow light of sulphur flashing.
When the melee broke and scatter'd, pages dragg'd away the dead;
There were feathers wet and crimson, there were trappings burnt and red.
On a bier of boughs and hurdles they bore Sir William Ray,
As night came down, a dreary pall, and closed the hunting day.
There were feathers wet and crimson, there were trappings burnt and red.
On a bier of boughs and hurdles they bore Sir William Ray,
As night came down, a dreary pall, and closed the hunting day.
110
THE GENTLEMAN IN BLACK.
[_]
[King William the Third's death was occasioned by the horse he was riding stumbling at a mole-hill. This mole became afterwards famous as a Jacobite toast, by the name of ‘The Little Gentleman in Black Velvet.’]
The club had met, the cups stood full,
The chairman stirr'd the bowl;
The bottle, as it circling flew,
Gave wings to every soul.
“'Tis Orange Boven.” that they cried,
When a voice at the chairman's back
Said, “I pray you drink with three times three
‘The Gentleman in Black.’”
The chairman stirr'd the bowl;
The bottle, as it circling flew,
Gave wings to every soul.
“'Tis Orange Boven.” that they cried,
When a voice at the chairman's back
Said, “I pray you drink with three times three
‘The Gentleman in Black.’”
The chairman filled his glass again,
And each one chink'd his spoon;
The fiddlers in the corner sat,
Stopp'd half way in their tune;
The Boven, and the Kentish fire,
The wainscot echoed back;
When silence came, the voice replied,
“The Gentleman in Black.”
And each one chink'd his spoon;
The fiddlers in the corner sat,
Stopp'd half way in their tune;
The Boven, and the Kentish fire,
The wainscot echoed back;
When silence came, the voice replied,
“The Gentleman in Black.”
111
Then every eye was turned to see
What the intruder meant.
He was a man with shaggy brows,
And long nose hook'd and bent—
“Death, devil, or a doctor!” cried
The shrewdest of the pack;
The stranger merely smil'd, and said,
“The Gentleman in Black.”
What the intruder meant.
He was a man with shaggy brows,
And long nose hook'd and bent—
“Death, devil, or a doctor!” cried
The shrewdest of the pack;
The stranger merely smil'd, and said,
“The Gentleman in Black.”
“An honest man, who digs as well,
As sexton, sand or clay,
And throws up heaps—a miner good
By night as well as day;
He's not a friend to Dutch or Whigs,
And Holland would let pack:
Still, drink a glass, my gallant sirs,
To the ‘Little Man in Black.’”
As sexton, sand or clay,
And throws up heaps—a miner good
By night as well as day;
He's not a friend to Dutch or Whigs,
And Holland would let pack:
Still, drink a glass, my gallant sirs,
To the ‘Little Man in Black.’”
Sallow and grim the speaker stood,
A stranger to them all,
He had a muffler round his mouth,
And never let it fall.
They drank the toast to humour him,
He laugh'd at the chairman's back,
Then glided out, as twenty roared,
“The Gentleman in Black.”
A stranger to them all,
He had a muffler round his mouth,
And never let it fall.
They drank the toast to humour him,
He laugh'd at the chairman's back,
Then glided out, as twenty roared,
“The Gentleman in Black.”
112
He coldly smiled as he passed out,
His lips moved with a sneer;
The wrinkles crept about his brow,
When they began to cheer.
The chairman said, “A riddle this,
I'm not upon the track,
But ne'ertheless, here's wishing well
To the Gentleman in Black.”
His lips moved with a sneer;
The wrinkles crept about his brow,
When they began to cheer.
The chairman said, “A riddle this,
I'm not upon the track,
But ne'ertheless, here's wishing well
To the Gentleman in Black.”
An hour had gone: a pale-faced man
Ran in, not greeting any,
Said, “Friends, I bring but sorry news,
And what will stagger many:
The king at noon was thrown and hurt
As Hampton Park he crossed.
He is just dead.” “What, dead!” they screamed;
“Our cause and England's lost!”
Ran in, not greeting any,
Said, “Friends, I bring but sorry news,
And what will stagger many:
The king at noon was thrown and hurt
As Hampton Park he crossed.
He is just dead.” “What, dead!” they screamed;
“Our cause and England's lost!”
“What lam'd the horse?” a dozen cry—
“A mole-hill in the way—
It stumbled, and the king was thrown—
He's now six foot of clay.”
“A mole, I see!” the chairman foamed,
“I'm on the villain's track;
And this is why he made us toast
The Gentleman in Black.”
“A mole-hill in the way—
It stumbled, and the king was thrown—
He's now six foot of clay.”
“A mole, I see!” the chairman foamed,
“I'm on the villain's track;
And this is why he made us toast
The Gentleman in Black.”
113
OLD SIR WALTER.
A Story of 1734.
Stout Sir Walter was old but hearty:
A velvet cap on his long grey hair,
A full white rose at his gold-laced button:
Many were laughing, but none looked gayer.
A velvet cap on his long grey hair,
A full white rose at his gold-laced button:
Many were laughing, but none looked gayer.
Such a beast was his jet black hunter,
Silver-spotted with foam and froth,
Brawny in flank and fiery-blooded,
Stung by the spur to a curbless wrath!
Silver-spotted with foam and froth,
Brawny in flank and fiery-blooded,
Stung by the spur to a curbless wrath!
Gaily blowing his horn, he scrambled
Over the stone wall four feet two;
See saw over the old park railing,
Shaking the thistle-head rich with dew.
Over the stone wall four feet two;
See saw over the old park railing,
Shaking the thistle-head rich with dew.
114
A long black face the sour Whig huntsman
Pulled, when he saw Sir Walter come
Trotting up gay by the oak wood cover.
Why when he cheered did they all sit dumb?
Pulled, when he saw Sir Walter come
Trotting up gay by the oak wood cover.
Why when he cheered did they all sit dumb?
Why when he flung up his hat and shouted,
“God save King George!” they bawling cried,
As a Justice, drawing a long-sealed parchment,
Rode up grim to Sir Walter's side.
“God save King George!” they bawling cried,
As a Justice, drawing a long-sealed parchment,
Rode up grim to Sir Walter's side.
“In King George's name, arrest him, lieges!
This is the villain who fought at Boyne:
He sliced the feather from off my beaver,
And ran his sword twice into my groin.”
This is the villain who fought at Boyne:
He sliced the feather from off my beaver,
And ran his sword twice into my groin.”
Then out whipp'd blades: the horns they sounded,
The field came flocking in thick and fast,
But Sir Walter flogged at the barking rabble,
And through them all like a whirlwind pass'd.
The field came flocking in thick and fast,
But Sir Walter flogged at the barking rabble,
And through them all like a whirlwind pass'd.
“A hundred guineas to seize the traitor!”
Cried the Justice, purple and white with rage,
Then such a spurring, whipping, and flogging,
Was never seen in the strangest age.
Cried the Justice, purple and white with rage,
Then such a spurring, whipping, and flogging,
Was never seen in the strangest age.
The hunter whipped off Spot and Fowler,
Viper and Fury, and all the pack,
And set them fast, with their red tongues lolling
And white teeth fix'd, on Sir Walter's track.
Viper and Fury, and all the pack,
And set them fast, with their red tongues lolling
And white teeth fix'd, on Sir Walter's track.
115
Loud on the wind came blast of bugle,
All together the hounds gave tongue,
They swept like a hail-storm down by the gibbet,
Where the black rags still in the cold storm hung.
All together the hounds gave tongue,
They swept like a hail-storm down by the gibbet,
Where the black rags still in the cold storm hung.
The rain cut faces like long whip lashes,
The wind blew strong in its wayward will,
And powdering fast, the men and horses
Thundering swept down Frampton Hill.
The wind blew strong in its wayward will,
And powdering fast, the men and horses
Thundering swept down Frampton Hill.
There half the grooms at last pull'd bridle,
Swearing 'twould ruin their bits of blood;
Three Whig rogues flew out of the saddle,
And two were plumped in the river mud.
Swearing 'twould ruin their bits of blood;
Three Whig rogues flew out of the saddle,
And two were plumped in the river mud.
Three men stuck to the leading rebel;
The first was a Whig lord, fat and red,
The next a yellow-faced lean attorney,
And the last a Justice, as some one said.
The first was a Whig lord, fat and red,
The next a yellow-faced lean attorney,
And the last a Justice, as some one said.
Slap at the fence went old Sir Walter,
Slap at the ditch by the pollard-tree,
Crash through the hazels, over the water,
And wherever he went, there went the three.
Slap at the ditch by the pollard-tree,
Crash through the hazels, over the water,
And wherever he went, there went the three.
Into the hill-fence broke Sir Walter,
Right through the tangle of branch and thorns,
Swish'd the rasper up by the windmill,
In spite of the cries and blowing of horns.
Right through the tangle of branch and thorns,
Swish'd the rasper up by the windmill,
In spite of the cries and blowing of horns.
116
Lines of flames trailed all the scarlet
Streaming, the dogs half a mile before,
Whoop! with a cry all after Sir Walter,
Driving wildly along the shore.
Streaming, the dogs half a mile before,
Whoop! with a cry all after Sir Walter,
Driving wildly along the shore.
Over the timber flew old Sir Walter,
Light as a swallow, sure and swift,
For his sturdy arm and his “pull and hustle”
Could help a nag at the deadest lift.
Light as a swallow, sure and swift,
For his sturdy arm and his “pull and hustle”
Could help a nag at the deadest lift.
Off went his gold-laced hat and bugle,
His scarlet cloak he then let fall,
And into the river spurr'd old Sir Walter,
Boldly there, in the sight of all.
His scarlet cloak he then let fall,
And into the river spurr'd old Sir Walter,
Boldly there, in the sight of all.
There was many a sore on back and wither,
Many a spur that ran with red,
But none of them caught the stout Sir Walter,
Though they counted of horses sixty head.
Many a spur that ran with red,
But none of them caught the stout Sir Walter,
Though they counted of horses sixty head.
There was many a fetlock cut and wounded,
Many a hock deep lam'd with thorns,
Many a man that two years after
Shuddered to hear the sound of horns.
Many a hock deep lam'd with thorns,
Many a man that two years after
Shuddered to hear the sound of horns.
But on the fallow, the long clay fallow,
Foundered his black mare, Lilly Lee,
And Sir Walter sat on the tough old saddle,
Waiting the coming of all the three.
Foundered his black mare, Lilly Lee,
And Sir Walter sat on the tough old saddle,
Waiting the coming of all the three.
117
Never such chase of stag or vermin,
Along the park pale, in and out;
On they thundered, fast over the railing,
Driving the fence in splints about.
Along the park pale, in and out;
On they thundered, fast over the railing,
Driving the fence in splints about.
The first he shot with his long steel pistol,
The second he slew with his Irish sword,
The third he threw in the brook, and mounted
Quick on the steed of the fat Whig lord.
The second he slew with his Irish sword,
The third he threw in the brook, and mounted
Quick on the steed of the fat Whig lord.
Then off to the ship at the nearest harbour,
Gallop'd Sir Walter, sure and fleet.
He died, 'tis true, in an old French garret,
But his heart went true to the latest beat.
Gallop'd Sir Walter, sure and fleet.
He died, 'tis true, in an old French garret,
But his heart went true to the latest beat.
A white rose, stifled and very sickly,
Pined for air at the window-sill,
But the last fond look of the brave old trooper
Was fixed on the dying emblem—still,
Pined for air at the window-sill,
But the last fond look of the brave old trooper
Was fixed on the dying emblem—still,
All alone in the dusky garret,
He turn'd to the flower with a father's pride,
“God save King James!” the old man murmured,
“God—save—the—King!” he moaned and died.
He turn'd to the flower with a father's pride,
“God save King James!” the old man murmured,
“God—save—the—King!” he moaned and died.
118
THE JACOBITE ON TOWER HILL.
He tripp'd up the steps with a bow and a smile,
Offering snuff to the chaplain the while,
A rose at his button-hole that afternoon—
'Twas the tenth of the month, and the month it was June.
Offering snuff to the chaplain the while,
A rose at his button-hole that afternoon—
'Twas the tenth of the month, and the month it was June.
Then shrugging his shoulders he look'd at the man
With the mask and the axe, and a murmuring ran
Through the crowd, who, below, were all pushing to see
The gaoler kneel down, and receiving his fee.
With the mask and the axe, and a murmuring ran
Through the crowd, who, below, were all pushing to see
The gaoler kneel down, and receiving his fee.
He look'd at the mob, as they roared, with a stare,
And took snuff again with a cynical air.
“I'm happy to give but a moment's delight
To the flower of my country agog for a sight.”
And took snuff again with a cynical air.
“I'm happy to give but a moment's delight
To the flower of my country agog for a sight.”
119
Then he look'd at the block, and with scented cravat
Dusted room for his neck, gaily doffing his hat,
Kiss'd his hand to a lady, bent low to the crowd,
Then smiling, turn'd round to the headsman and bow'd.
Dusted room for his neck, gaily doffing his hat,
Kiss'd his hand to a lady, bent low to the crowd,
Then smiling, turn'd round to the headsman and bow'd.
“God save King James!” he cried bravely and shrill,
And the cry reach'd the houses at foot of the hill,
“My friend, with the axe, à votre service,” he said;
And ran his white thumb 'long the edge of the blade.
And the cry reach'd the houses at foot of the hill,
“My friend, with the axe, à votre service,” he said;
And ran his white thumb 'long the edge of the blade.
When the multitude hissed he stood firm as a rock;
Then kneeling, laid down his gay head on the block,
He kiss'd a white rose, in a moment 'twas red
With the life of the bravest of any that bled.
Then kneeling, laid down his gay head on the block,
He kiss'd a white rose, in a moment 'twas red
With the life of the bravest of any that bled.
120
THE NIGHT SURPRISE.
In the drift and pother of scud and hail,
When the wind drove strong at our rain-drenched back,
I and some seventy more stout lads
Picked from Newcastle's mad-cap pack,
I and some seventy devil-may-cares
Rode to Bristol—and then rode back.
When the wind drove strong at our rain-drenched back,
I and some seventy more stout lads
Picked from Newcastle's mad-cap pack,
I and some seventy devil-may-cares
Rode to Bristol—and then rode back.
Through the sleet and darkness, and wind and hail,
Such storm as follows a devil behind,
Our fellows all backed and breasted with steel,
Our swords new ground—the way of the wind
Bore down on Bristol, seeing a light
Wave three times clear at the steeple blind.
Such storm as follows a devil behind,
Our fellows all backed and breasted with steel,
Our swords new ground—the way of the wind
Bore down on Bristol, seeing a light
Wave three times clear at the steeple blind.
121
Through wind and struggle, and blast and blow,
Through river that brimmed with a winter's rain,
We spurred post haste with our carbines cocked,
Down the avenue, up the lane,
Over the moor, and round by the mill,—
Never a thought of shot or slain.
Through river that brimmed with a winter's rain,
We spurred post haste with our carbines cocked,
Down the avenue, up the lane,
Over the moor, and round by the mill,—
Never a thought of shot or slain.
“Dark, dark, dark, and the watch all drunk:
Caught in a trap, the sots are nicked
Off with the lock—the widows may weep.
The postern is open. What! tricked, boys, tricked?
Look to your matches, I smell a rat;
Hammer the town gate, fast, fast, fast,
And take the white rose out of your hat.”
Caught in a trap, the sots are nicked
Off with the lock—the widows may weep.
The postern is open. What! tricked, boys, tricked?
Look to your matches, I smell a rat;
Hammer the town gate, fast, fast, fast,
And take the white rose out of your hat.”
“Run like devils, the city is up,
You clink that fellow over the head;
Fire the houses round by the bridge,
And give the rascals a dose of lead;
Spur, or we're lost—a plunge—a leap
Over the river—the fools look black:”
And this is the way my seventy lads
Rode to Bristol, and then rode back.
You clink that fellow over the head;
Fire the houses round by the bridge,
And give the rascals a dose of lead;
Spur, or we're lost—a plunge—a leap
Over the river—the fools look black:”
And this is the way my seventy lads
Rode to Bristol, and then rode back.
122
THE DEATH OF MARLBOROUGH.
The sun shines on the chamber wall,
The sun shines through the tree,
Now, though unshaken by the wind,
The leaves fall ceaselessly;
The bells from Woodstock's steeple
Shake Blenheim's fading bough.
“This day you won Malplaquet,”—
“Aye, something then, but now!”
The sun shines through the tree,
Now, though unshaken by the wind,
The leaves fall ceaselessly;
The bells from Woodstock's steeple
Shake Blenheim's fading bough.
“This day you won Malplaquet,”—
“Aye, something then, but now!”
They lead the old man to a chair,
Wandering, pale and weak;
His thin lips move—so faint the sound
You scarce can hear him speak.
They lift a picture from the wall,
Bold eyes and swelling brow;
“The day you won Malplaquet,”—
“Aye, something then, but now!”
Wandering, pale and weak;
His thin lips move—so faint the sound
You scarce can hear him speak.
They lift a picture from the wall,
Bold eyes and swelling brow;
“The day you won Malplaquet,”—
“Aye, something then, but now!”
123
They reach him down a rusty sword,
In faded velvet sheath:
The old man drops the heavy blade,
And mutters 'tween his teeth;
There's sorrow in his fading eye,
And pain upon his brow;
“With this you won Malplaquet,”—
“Aye, something then, but now!”
In faded velvet sheath:
The old man drops the heavy blade,
And mutters 'tween his teeth;
There's sorrow in his fading eye,
And pain upon his brow;
“With this you won Malplaquet,”—
“Aye, something then, but now!”
Another year, a stream of lights
Flows down the avenue;
A mile of mourners, sable clad,
Walk weeping two by two:
The steward looks into the grave
With sad and downcast brow;
“This day he won Malplaquet,
Aye, something then, but now!”
Flows down the avenue;
A mile of mourners, sable clad,
Walk weeping two by two:
The steward looks into the grave
With sad and downcast brow;
“This day he won Malplaquet,
Aye, something then, but now!”
124
THE JACOBINS' RISING.
There's a light in Rooknest turret,
And a flame on the Beacon Hill;
Look! there went up the signal fire
From the tower at Wetherby mill;
From the steeple on Vivian Moor,
Hurrah! for the spirt of red.
If I guess right, no Jacobin
Will spend to-night in bed.
And a flame on the Beacon Hill;
Look! there went up the signal fire
From the tower at Wetherby mill;
From the steeple on Vivian Moor,
Hurrah! for the spirt of red.
If I guess right, no Jacobin
Will spend to-night in bed.
Look! that's on the cliff at Fowy.
Answering one at sea:
Did you hear that gun-shot, Willy?
If I were not eighty-three,
I'd burn our ricks to spread it
Round all the Devon coast.
Bring me my old buff jerkin;—
These Dutchmen rule the roost.
Answering one at sea:
Did you hear that gun-shot, Willy?
If I were not eighty-three,
I'd burn our ricks to spread it
Round all the Devon coast.
Bring me my old buff jerkin;—
These Dutchmen rule the roost.
125
Was that a horn? a gnat could hum
As loud indeed as that.
Wake Jack, and Ned, and Harry,
With gun, and sword, and bat,
Leave me to feed the falcons,
And every man to horse;
For twenty thousand Jacobins
To-night must meet in force.
As loud indeed as that.
Wake Jack, and Ned, and Harry,
With gun, and sword, and bat,
Leave me to feed the falcons,
And every man to horse;
For twenty thousand Jacobins
To-night must meet in force.
“Ah! here is Severn riding lightly,
Redfern, gay, and arch, and sprightly.
Rough old Wilcox, stern and knightly,
With the Cornish men in blue;
Dallasy, the proud and trusty;
Willoughby, the young and lusty!
Gifford with his corslet rusty,
All in groups of two and two.
Redfern, gay, and arch, and sprightly.
Rough old Wilcox, stern and knightly,
With the Cornish men in blue;
Dallasy, the proud and trusty;
Willoughby, the young and lusty!
Gifford with his corslet rusty,
All in groups of two and two.
See the yeomen, lords, and vassals,
Noblemen from grey old castles:
Grey and Fosbrook, Hale and Lascelles.
Thirty barons from the Trent—
Duffield, Thornton, Hull, and Russel—
Iron champions in a jostle,
With their gilded trains, who hustle
Every man that Devon sent.
Noblemen from grey old castles:
Grey and Fosbrook, Hale and Lascelles.
Thirty barons from the Trent—
Duffield, Thornton, Hull, and Russel—
Iron champions in a jostle,
With their gilded trains, who hustle
Every man that Devon sent.
126
Only here and there a cripple,
Red-nosed sot who loved his tipple,
Or an angler watching ripple,
Lingered when the cry went up.
Every farmer left his village,
Every ploughman left his tillage,
Every bird-boy, keen for pillage,
Drained the ready stirrup cup.
Red-nosed sot who loved his tipple,
Or an angler watching ripple,
Lingered when the cry went up.
Every farmer left his village,
Every ploughman left his tillage,
Every bird-boy, keen for pillage,
Drained the ready stirrup cup.
Then through old Cornwall's duchy
The cry ran “Lads to horse,”
And twenty thousand Jacobins
Rose all at once in force.
The cry ran “Lads to horse,”
And twenty thousand Jacobins
Rose all at once in force.
127
THE WHITE ROSE.
At the “Lobster,” in Southwark,
Ten orange cloaks met;
The chairman, a marquis,
At head of them sat.
The Dutch nobles stared
With a coldness that froze
All but the gentleman
Wearing the rose.
Ten orange cloaks met;
The chairman, a marquis,
At head of them sat.
The Dutch nobles stared
With a coldness that froze
All but the gentleman
Wearing the rose.
He sat with his claret,
And never spoke word;
He smiled at the threats
And oaths that he heard,
Till one, flinging his glove,
Asked what weapons he chose:
Then up leaped the gentleman
Wearing the rose.
And never spoke word;
He smiled at the threats
And oaths that he heard,
Till one, flinging his glove,
Asked what weapons he chose:
Then up leaped the gentleman
Wearing the rose.
128
Down went the feather
That headed the swords,
Down went the white wigs
Of blue-ribbon'd lords.
The red heels in terror
Of buffets and blows,
Fled from that gentleman
Wearing the rose.
That headed the swords,
Down went the white wigs
Of blue-ribbon'd lords.
The red heels in terror
Of buffets and blows,
Fled from that gentleman
Wearing the rose.
129
CULLODEN.
Bright both in sun and shade,
Shone the brave white cockade—
White as the snow that laid
On dark Culloden.
How the Macgregors came,
Faster than running flame,
Putting the Grants to shame,
Though so down-trodden.
Shone the brave white cockade—
White as the snow that laid
On dark Culloden.
How the Macgregors came,
Faster than running flame,
Putting the Grants to shame,
Though so down-trodden.
Looking along the line,
I saw the fiery eyne
Of the Macdonalds shine
At the clan Frasers.
They pulled their bonnets down,
With a black, cruel frown,
Firm on their matted crown
(Swords sharp as razors).
I saw the fiery eyne
Of the Macdonalds shine
At the clan Frasers.
They pulled their bonnets down,
With a black, cruel frown,
Firm on their matted crown
(Swords sharp as razors).
130
Each one his claymore-sheath
Threw on the purple heath,
And with dirk 'tween his teeth
Glared at the cannon,
Reapers at early dawn,
Standing beside the corn,
With our keen sickles drawn,
That day we ran on.
Threw on the purple heath,
And with dirk 'tween his teeth
Glared at the cannon,
Reapers at early dawn,
Standing beside the corn,
With our keen sickles drawn,
That day we ran on.
As the wind reaps the pines,
So through the Saxon lines,
Where the bright bayonet shines,
Burst we in anger,
Spite of the fiery hail,
All our grim faces pale,
With a loud pibroch wail,
Drove our mad clangour.
So through the Saxon lines,
Where the bright bayonet shines,
Burst we in anger,
Spite of the fiery hail,
All our grim faces pale,
With a loud pibroch wail,
Drove our mad clangour.
Loud rang the war pipes then,
Cheering the Cameron men
Thinking of lake and glen
'Mid the fire fountains,
Waved the white ribbons all,
Round the king's colours tall,
Answered the bugle call,
Horns of the mountains.
Cheering the Cameron men
Thinking of lake and glen
'Mid the fire fountains,
Waved the white ribbons all,
Round the king's colours tall,
Answered the bugle call,
Horns of the mountains.
131
Athol-men, tall and lithe,
Each with a sweeping scythe;
Yet they were but a tithe
Of the brave rebels.
Waded knee deep in blood
Through the hot, burning flood,
On through a flaming wood,
As their strength trebles.
Each with a sweeping scythe;
Yet they were but a tithe
Of the brave rebels.
Waded knee deep in blood
Through the hot, burning flood,
On through a flaming wood,
As their strength trebles.
Barehead in wind and sun,
We prayed to only one.
Low the deep murmurs run
Of the Dhun Wassels,
Felled in great swathes, like grain
Layed by the flooding rain:
Tide after tide in vain,
Drove on the vassals.
We prayed to only one.
Low the deep murmurs run
Of the Dhun Wassels,
Felled in great swathes, like grain
Layed by the flooding rain:
Tide after tide in vain,
Drove on the vassals.
As from grey Catdicham,
Swoops on the sportive lamb,
Spite of its bleating dam,
Eagle-dark pinions,
Scaring the shepherd's child
With its glance keen and wild,
Then soaring blood-defil'd
To its dominions.
Swoops on the sportive lamb,
Spite of its bleating dam,
Eagle-dark pinions,
Scaring the shepherd's child
With its glance keen and wild,
Then soaring blood-defil'd
To its dominions.
132
As when the flooded rills
Pour down between the hills,
And the lone valley fills
With awe and wonder.
When on before them fast
Flies the red lightning blast,
Through the lit pines aghast
Howls the deep thunder.
Pour down between the hills,
And the lone valley fills
With awe and wonder.
When on before them fast
Flies the red lightning blast,
Through the lit pines aghast
Howls the deep thunder.
Stormy the pipers blew,
Snow white the ribbons flew,
Deeper the fury grew,
Madder than Flodden,
Piercing through heart and brain.
Beating like tempest rain,
Drove the red hurricane
O'er dark Culloden.
Snow white the ribbons flew,
Deeper the fury grew,
Madder than Flodden,
Piercing through heart and brain.
Beating like tempest rain,
Drove the red hurricane
O'er dark Culloden.
We did all that mere steel could do,
Against a Saxon crew,
Arm'd with the fire that flew;
Lightning to blast us,
Swifter than eagles' wing,
From the dark rocky spring,
Where the wild foxgloves cling,
Athol-men past us.
Against a Saxon crew,
Arm'd with the fire that flew;
Lightning to blast us,
Swifter than eagles' wing,
From the dark rocky spring,
Where the wild foxgloves cling,
Athol-men past us.
133
One line was swept away,
Still to that fatal fray,
Laughing like boy at play,
Drove on Glengarry.
Pistol in bloody hand,
Target thrown on the sand,
Macbane, with swinging brand,
Did not long tarry.
Still to that fatal fray,
Laughing like boy at play,
Drove on Glengarry.
Pistol in bloody hand,
Target thrown on the sand,
Macbane, with swinging brand,
Did not long tarry.
Banked up with rows of dead,
Calmly as on a bed,
With his gashed forehead red,
Sat Angus the piper.
Knitted his brows, and pale
As seaman who sees a sail
Split in the sudden gale,
Still growing riper.
Calmly as on a bed,
With his gashed forehead red,
Sat Angus the piper.
Knitted his brows, and pale
As seaman who sees a sail
Split in the sudden gale,
Still growing riper.
When Keppock saw them fly,
Tears filled his burning eye—
“Sons of my tribe,” his cry,
“Am I forsaken?”
Fast on the bayonets then,
Hewed he down flag and men,
Fierce as from rocky den,
The wolf o'ertaken.
Tears filled his burning eye—
“Sons of my tribe,” his cry,
“Am I forsaken?”
Fast on the bayonets then,
Hewed he down flag and men,
Fierce as from rocky den,
The wolf o'ertaken.
134
Athol and Cameron men,
Children of Lake and Fen;
Would we could see again
“John of the Battles!”
O for the stormy plaids!
O for the rush of blades,
Where through the rocky glades
Fast the stream prattles.
Children of Lake and Fen;
Would we could see again
“John of the Battles!”
O for the stormy plaids!
O for the rush of blades,
Where through the rocky glades
Fast the stream prattles.
Round his old sire a son
Threw his stabbed arm, the one
With a blood torrent run,
Shielding from danger,
Praying to Jesus there
To save his hoary hair,
So he might anywhere
Die with the stranger.
Threw his stabbed arm, the one
With a blood torrent run,
Shielding from danger,
Praying to Jesus there
To save his hoary hair,
So he might anywhere
Die with the stranger.
One by his chieftain knelt,
Holding his girdled belt;
I saw the hot tears melt,
Shed on the dying.
Then with his broad claymore,
Reeking and wet with gore,
Slew he some three or four
Of the fools flying.
Holding his girdled belt;
I saw the hot tears melt,
Shed on the dying.
Then with his broad claymore,
Reeking and wet with gore,
Slew he some three or four
Of the fools flying.
135
As when the granite blocks,
Stricken by lightning shocks,
Breaks from the Lomond rocks:
Riven asunder,
Smoke down the gorge and pass,
Shivered like brittle glass,
Sweeping down pines like grass
With a hoarse thunder.
Stricken by lightning shocks,
Breaks from the Lomond rocks:
Riven asunder,
Smoke down the gorge and pass,
Shivered like brittle glass,
Sweeping down pines like grass
With a hoarse thunder.
Crimson like driven flame,
On the red tartans came,
What could their fury tame?
Not steel or iron.
Cutting a bloody lane—
Red path for serf and thane—
Strode the grey Allan Bane
Through thy environ.
On the red tartans came,
What could their fury tame?
Not steel or iron.
Cutting a bloody lane—
Red path for serf and thane—
Strode the grey Allan Bane
Through thy environ.
Sullen some stand apart,
I saw the tear-drops start,
Wrung from the bleeding heart,
Mourning lost honour.
“Better go mad and weep—
Better grave twelve foot deep—
Better eternal sleep—
Than this dishonour.”
I saw the tear-drops start,
Wrung from the bleeding heart,
Mourning lost honour.
“Better go mad and weep—
Better grave twelve foot deep—
Better eternal sleep—
Than this dishonour.”
136
Waiting and baring breast,
Gaze turned towards the west;
On their sheathed arms they rest.
Eyes staring redly.
Gnashing with rage their teeth,
Sword in the sluggish sheath—
Dead on the bloody heath,
Slain in the medley.
Gaze turned towards the west;
On their sheathed arms they rest.
Eyes staring redly.
Gnashing with rage their teeth,
Sword in the sluggish sheath—
Dead on the bloody heath,
Slain in the medley.
Wounded men crawl and die,
Striking with glazing eye,
Deadly their grasp and cry,
Stabbing the German.
Clasping the bayonets, they
Strove to hew out a way,
Leaping, like hounds at bay,
On the red vermin.
Striking with glazing eye,
Deadly their grasp and cry,
Stabbing the German.
Clasping the bayonets, they
Strove to hew out a way,
Leaping, like hounds at bay,
On the red vermin.
Old men with blooded hair,
And a half-maddened stare,
Breaking through smoke and glare,
Cried, “Ho, for heaven!
Shall our brave mountaineers
Fly from mere cannoneers?
Who one lost battle fears?
Bruce lost eleven.”
And a half-maddened stare,
Breaking through smoke and glare,
Cried, “Ho, for heaven!
Shall our brave mountaineers
Fly from mere cannoneers?
Who one lost battle fears?
Bruce lost eleven.”
137
Tartans in waves of green,
Moved like a forest seen,
Wind-tossed the hills between,
When the storms blacken.
Plumes on the bonnets shook,
Each one his target took,
Trampling with earnest look
Over the bracken.
Moved like a forest seen,
Wind-tossed the hills between,
When the storms blacken.
Plumes on the bonnets shook,
Each one his target took,
Trampling with earnest look
Over the bracken.
One by his brother fell,
I saw him gasp to tell
Name of her loved so well.
Vainly his brother
Staunch'd with the strips of plaid,
Stab from the bayonet blade—
(Youngest of all that raid
Far from his mother.)
I saw him gasp to tell
Name of her loved so well.
Vainly his brother
Staunch'd with the strips of plaid,
Stab from the bayonet blade—
(Youngest of all that raid
Far from his mother.)
Feeble and in the rear,
Yet without sign of fear,
Stood a blind Highland seer,
Allan Mackinnon.
“To-day for revenge,” he cried,
“To-morrow for tears of pride;”
Then with a leap he died,
Crushed by the cannon.
Yet without sign of fear,
Stood a blind Highland seer,
Allan Mackinnon.
“To-day for revenge,” he cried,
“To-morrow for tears of pride;”
Then with a leap he died,
Crushed by the cannon.
138
Broad stretch'd the moor away,
Far to the east it lay,
Swelling like waves at play,
On the Firth yonder.
High springs the Ross-shire hill,
Silver'd with line of rill;
Sea, sky, and mountain fill
All minds with wonder.
Far to the east it lay,
Swelling like waves at play,
On the Firth yonder.
High springs the Ross-shire hill,
Silver'd with line of rill;
Sea, sky, and mountain fill
All minds with wonder.
| Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads | |