The Earl nor pray'r nor pity heeds, "Unmanner'd dog! To stop my sport Vain were thy cant and beggar whine, Though human spirits, of thy sort, Were tenants of these carrion kine!” Again he winds his bugle horn, "Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!" And through the herd, in ruthless scorn He cheers his furious hounds to go. In heaps the throttled victims fall; Down sinks their mangl'd herdsman near; The murd❜rous cries the stag appal,Again he starts, new-nerv'd by fear. With blood besmear'd, and white with foam, While big the tears of anguish pour, He seeks, amid the forest's gloom, The humble hermit's hallow'd bow'r. But man, and horse, and horn, and bound, The sacred chapel rung around All mild, amid the rout profane, The holy hermit pour'd his pray'r;"Forbear with blood God's house to stain Revere his altar, and forbear! "The meanest brute has rights to plead, Which, wrong'd by cruelty, or pride, Draw vengeance on the ruthless head: Be warn'd at length, and turn aside," Still the Fair Horseman anxious pleads; But frantic keeps the forward way. "Holy or not, or right or wrong, Thy altar, and its rites, I spurn; Not sainted martyrs' sacred song, Not God himself, shall make me turn!" He spurs his horse, he winds his horn, And horse, and man, and horn, and hound, No distant baying reach'd his ears: Still dark and darker frown the shades, Save what a distant torrent gave, High o'er the sinner's humbl'd head The awful voice of thunder spoke, "Oppressor of creation fair! Apostate Spirits' harden'd tool! "Be chas'd for ever through the wood; 'Twas hush'd: One flash, of sombre glare, Cold pour'd the sweat in freezing rill; And louder, louder, louder still, Brought storm and tempest on its wing. Earth heard the call;- her entrails rend; What ghastly Huntsman next arose, His eye like midnight lightning glows, The Wildgrave flies o'er bush and thorn, With wild despair's reverted eye, Close, close behind, he marks the throng, Still, still shall last the dreadful chase, The wakeful priest oft drops a tear WAR SONG. OF THE ROYAL EDINBURGH LIGHT DRAGOONS, Written auring the apprehension of an invasion To horse! to horse! the standard flies, The bugles sound the call; The Gallic navy stems the seas, The voice of Battle's on the breeze, Arouse ye, one and all! From high Dunedin's tow'rs we come, A band of brothers true; Our casques the leopard's spoils surround, With Scotland's hardy thistle crown'd; We boast the red and blue, WAR SONG. Though tamely crouch to Gallia's frown, O! had they mark'd th' avenging call Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head, Dress our pale cheek in timid smile, Or brook a victor's scorn? No! though destruction o'er the land The sun, that sees our falling day, For gold let Gallia's legions fight, Unbrib'd, unbought, our swords we draw, To guard our King, to fence our Law, Nor shall their edge be vain. If ever breath of British gale Or footstep of invader rude, With rapine foul, and red with blood, Pollute our happy shore,→→ Then farewell home! and farewell friends! Resolv'd, we mingle in the tide, Where charging squadrons furious ride, To conquer, or to die. To horse! to horse! the sabres gleam; THE NORMAN HORSE-SHOE [The Welch, inhabiting a mountainous country, and possessing only an inferior breed of horses, were usually unable to encounter the shock of the Anglo-Norman cavalry. Occasionally, however, they were successful in repelling the invaders; and the following verses are sup posed to celebrate a defeat of Clare, Earl of Striguil and Pembroke, and of Neville, Baron of Chepstow, LordsMarchers of Monmouthshire. Rymny is a stream which divides the counties of Monmouth and Glamorgan: Caer phili, the scene of the supposed battle, is a vale upon its banks, dignified by the ruins of a very ancient castle. AIR-The War-song of the Men of Glamorgan. I. RED glows the forge inStriguil's bounds, Barb many a steed for battle's broil. Foul fall the hand which bends the steel II. From Chepstow's tow'rs, ere dawn of morn, And forth, in banded pomp and pride, Stout Clare and fiery Neville ride. They swore, their banners broad should gleam, In crimson light, on Rymny's stream; They vow'd, Caerphili's sod should feel III. And sooth they swore-the sun arose, A Norman horseman's curdling blood! |