TO horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! the clarion’s note is high; | |
| To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! the huge drum makes reply: | |
| Ere this hath Lucas marched with his gallant cavaliers, | |
| And the bray of Rupert’s trumpets grows fainter in our ears. | |
| To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! White Guy is at the door, | 5 |
| And the vulture whets his beak o’er the field of Marston Moor. | |
| |
| Up rose the Lady Alice from her brief and broken prayer, | |
| And she brought a silken standard down the narrow turret stair. | |
| Oh, many were the tears that those radiant eyes had shed, | |
| As she worked the bright word “Glory” in the gay and glancing thread; | 10 |
| And mournful was the smile that o’er those beauteous features ran, | |
| As she said, “It is your lady’s gift, unfurl it in the van.” | |
| |
| “It shall flutter, noble wench, where the best and boldest ride, | |
| Through the steel-clad files of Skippon and the black dragoons of Pride; | |
| The recreant soul of Fairfax will feel a sicklier qualm, | 15 |
| And the rebel lips of Oliver give out a louder psalm, | |
| When they see my lady’s gew-gaw flaunt bravely on their wing, | |
| And hear her loyal soldiers’ shout, for God and for the King!” | |
| |
| ’Tis noon; the yanks are broken along the royal line; | |
| They fly, the braggarts of the Court, the Bullies of the Rhine: | 20 |
| Stout Langley’s cheer is heard no more, and Astley’s helm is down, | |
| And Rupert sheathes his rapier with a curse and with a frown; | |
| And cold Newcastle mutters, as he follows in the flight, | |
| “The German boar had better far have supped in York to-night.” | |
| |
| The Knight is all alone, his steel cap cleft in twain, | 25 |
| His good buff jerkin crimsoned o’er with many a gory stain; | |
| But still he waves the standard, and cries amid the rout— | |
| “For Church and King, fair gentlemen, spur on and fight it out!” | |
| And now he wards a Roundhead’s pike, and now he hums a stave, | |
| And here he quotes a stage-play, and there he fells a knave. | 30 |
| |
| Good speed to thee, Sir Nicholas! thou hast no thought of fear; | |
| Good speed to thee, Sir Nicholas! but fearful odds are here. | |
| The traitors ring thee round, and with every blow and thrust, | |
| “Down, down,” they cry, “with Belial, down with him to the dust!” | |
| “I would,” quoth grim old Oliver, “that Belial’s trusty sword | 35 |
| This day were doing battle for the Saints and for the Lord!” | |
| |
| The Lady Alice sits with her maidens in her bower; | |
| The grey-haired warden watches on the castle’s highest tower.— | |
| “What news, what news, old Anthony?” “The field is lost and won; | |
| The ranks of war are melting as the mists beneath the sun; | 40 |
| And a wounded man speeds hither,—I am old and cannot see, | |
| Or sure I am that sturdy step my master’s step should be.”— | |
| |
| “I bring thee back the standard from as rude and rough a fray, | |
| As e’er was proof of soldier’s thews, or theme for minstrel’s lay. | |
| Bid Hubert fetch the silver bowl, and liquor quantum suff; | 45 |
| I’ll make a shift to drain it, ere I part with boot and buff; | |
| Though Guy through many a gaping wound is breathing out his life, | |
| And I come to thee a landless man, my fond and faithful wife! | |
| |
| “Sweet, we will fill our money-bags, and freight a ship for France, | |
| And mourn in merry Paris for this poor realm’s mischance; | 50 |
| Or, if the worst betide me, why, better axe or rope, | |
| Than life with Lenthal for a king, and Peter’s for a pope! | |
| Alas, alas, my gallant Guy!—out on the crop-eared boor, | |
| That sent me with my standard on foot from Marston Moor!” | |
| |
