Then, "Mount, ye gallants free,"
He cried; and, vaulting from the ground,
His saddle every horseman found.
On high their glittering crests they toss,
As springs the wildfire from the moss,
The shield hangs down on every breast,
Each ready lance is in the rest.
And loud shouts Edward Bruce,
Forth, Marshal, on the peasant foe!
We'll tame the terrors of the bow,
And cut the bowstring loose."
Then spurs were dashed in chargers' flanks,
They rush'd among the archer ranks;
No spears were there the shock to let,1
No stakes to turn the charge were set,
And how shall yeoman's armour slight
Stand the long lance and mace of might?
Or what may their short swords avail
Gain'st barbed horse and shirt of mail.
Amid their ranks the chargers spring,
High o'er their heads the weapons swing,
And shriek and groan and vengeful shout
Give note of triumph and of rout.
Awhile, with stubborn hardihood,
Their English hearts the strife made good;
Borne down at length on every side,
Compelled to flight, they scatter wide.
Let stags of Sherwood leap for glee,
And bound the deer of Dallom-Lea,
The broken bows of Bannock's shore
Shall in the greenwood ring no more.
Round Wakefield's merry Maypole now
The maids may twine the summer bough,
May northward look with longing glance
For those that wont to lead the dance,
For the blithe archers look in vain ;
Broken, disperst, in flight o'erta'en,
Pierced through, trode down, by thousan s slain, They cumber Bannock's bloody plain.
The king with scorn beheld their flight;
"Are these,” he said, "our yeomen wight?
Each braggart churl could boast before
Twelve Scottish lives his baldric bore;
Fitter to plunder chase or park,
Than make a manly foe their mark :
Forward each gentleman and knight,
Let gentle blood show generous might,
And chivalry redeem the fight."
To rightward of the wild affray
The field showed fair and level way,
But, in mid space, the Bruce's care Had bored the ground with many a pit, With turf and brushwood hidden yet, That formed a ghastly snare.
Rushing, ten thousand horsemen came, With spears in rest and hearts on flame, That panted for the shock!
With blazing crests, and banners spread,
And trumpet clang, and clamour dread,
The wide plain thundered to their tread
As far as Stirling rock.
Down! down! in headlong overthrow-
Horseman and horse-the foremost go
Wild floundering o'er the field.
The first are in destruction's gorge,
Their followers wildly o'er them urge:-
The knightly helm and shield,
The mail, the acton, and the spear,
Strong hand, high heart, are useless here;
Loud from the mass confused the cry
Of dying warriors swells on high,
And steeds that shriek in agony;
They came like mountain-torrent red
That thunders o'er its rocky bed,
They broke like that same torrent's wave
When swallowed by a darksome cave ;
Billows on billows burst and boil,
Maintaining still the stern turmoil,
And to their wild and tortured groan
Each adds new terrors of his own.
Yet mourn not, Land of Fame !1
Though ne'er the Leopards2 on thy shield
Retreated from so sad a field
Since Norman William came.
Oft may thine annals justly boast
Of battles stern by Scotland lost;
Grudge not her victory,
When for her freeborn rights she strove,
Rights dear to all who freedom love,
To none so dear as thee.
When Bertrand Du Guesclin was made prisoner at the battle of Navaretta, fighting in the cause of Henry of Trastamare against the Black Prince, who took the part of Pedro the Cruel, the maidens of his native province of Brittany spun unceasingly to raise the sum for his ransom. According to their faith, they are here made to invoke the Blessed Virgin.
'TWAS on the field of Navarrète,
When Trastamare had sought
From English arms a safe retreat,
Du Guesclin stood and fought:
2 The lions on the English shield are sometimes called leopards.
And to the brave Black Prince alone
He yielded up his sword;
So we must sing in mournful tone
Until it be restored :
Spin, spin, maidens of Brittany,
And let not your litany
Come to an end,
Before you have prayed
The Virgin to aid
Bertrand du Guesclin, our hero and friend.
The Black Prince is a gentle knight;
And bade Du Guesclin name
What ransom would be fit and right
For his renown and fame;
"A question hard," says he, "yet since
Hard Fortune on me frowns,
I could not tell you less, good Prince,
Than twenty thousand crowns."
CHORUS-Spin, spin, etc.
"Where find you all that gold, Sir Knight?
I would not have you end
Your days in sloth and undelight
Away from home and friend."
"O Prince of generous heart and just!
Let all your fears be stayed;
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