O! WHEREFORE come ye forth in triumph from the North, | |
| With your hands and your feet, and your raiment all red? | |
| And wherefore do your rout send forth a joyous shout? | |
| And whence are the grapes of the winepress that ye tread? | |
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| O! evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit, | 5 |
| And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod; | |
| For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong, | |
| Who sat in the high places and slew the saints of God. | |
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| It was about the noon of a glorious day of June, | |
| That we saw their banners dance and their cuirasses shine, | 10 |
| And the Man of Blood was there, with his long essenced hair, | |
| And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the Rhine. | |
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| Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword, | |
| The General rode along us to form us for the fight; | |
| When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled into a shout | 15 |
| Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant’s right. | |
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| And hark! like the roar of the billow on the shore, | |
| The cry of battle rises along their charging line: | |
| For God! for the Cause! for the Church! for the Laws! | |
| For Charles, King of England; and Rupert of the Rhine! | 20 |
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| The furious German comes, with his trumpet and his drums, | |
| His bravoes of Alsatia and pages of Whitehall; | |
| They are bursting on our flanks! Grasp your pikes! Close your ranks! | |
| For Rupert never comes, but to conquer, or to fall. | |
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| They are here—they rush on—we are broken—we are gone— | 25 |
| Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast. | |
| O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the right! | |
| Stand back to back, in God’s name! and fight it to the last! | |
| |
| Stout Skippen hath a wound—the centre hath given ground. | |
| But hark! what means this trampling of horsemen in the rear? | 30 |
| What banner do I see boys? ’Tis he! thank God! ’tis he, boys! | |
| Bear up another minute! Brave Oliver is here! | |
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| Their heads are stooping low, their pikes all in a row: | |
| Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dykes, | |
| Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst, | 35 |
| And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes. | |
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| Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide | |
| Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar. | |
| And he—he turns! he flies! shame to those cruel eyes | |
| That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war. | 40 |
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| Ho, comrades! scour the plain, and ere ye strip the slain, | |
| First give another stab to make the quest secure; | |
| Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad pieces and lockets, | |
| The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor. | |
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| Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were gay and bold, | 45 |
| When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans to-day; | |
| And to-morrow shall the fox from her chambers in the rocks | |
| Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey. | |
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| Where be your tongues, that late mocked at heaven, and hell and fate? | |
| And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades? | 50 |
| Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches and your oaths? | |
| Your stage-plays and your sonnets? your diamonds and your spades? | |
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| Down! down! forever down, with the mitre and the crown! | |
| With the Belial of the Court, and the Mammon of the Pope! | |
| There is woe in Oxford halls, there is wail in Durham stalls; | 55 |
| The Jesuit smites his bosom, the Bishop rends his cope. | |
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| And she of the Seven Hills shall mourn her children’s ills, | |
| And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England’s sword; | |
| And the Kings of earth in fear shall tremble when they hear | |
| What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and the Word! | 60 |
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