Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all, And don your helmes amaine : Deathe's couriers, Fame and Honor, call Us to the field againe. No shrewish teares shall fill our eye When the sword-hilt's in our handHeart whole we'll part, and no whit sighe For the fayrest of the land; Let piping swaine, and craven wight, And hero-like to die! WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. BANNOCK-BURN. ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. Scors, wha hae wi' Wallace bled- Or to victorie! Now's the day, and now's the hour; Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward's grave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Let him turn and flee! Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Free-man stand, or free-man fa'— Let him follow me! By oppression's woes and pains! By your sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free! Lay the proud usurpers low! ROBERT BURNS. IVRY. Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant land of France! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters; As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy; For cold and stiff and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. Hurrah! Hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war! Hurrah! Hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre. O! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears. There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land; And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand; And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood, And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre. The King is come to marshal us, in all his armor drest; And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. He looked upon his people, and a tear was in But out spake gentle Henry-“No French his eye; man is my foe: He looked upon the traitors, and his glance Down, down, with every foreiguer, but let was stern and high. your brethren go Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled O! was there ever such a knight, in friend from wing to wing, ship or in war, Down all our line, a deafening shout: God As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the sol save our lord the King! "And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may For never I saw promise yet of such a bloody fray Press where ye see my white plume shine And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din, Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin. dier of Navarre? Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day; And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey. But we of the religion have borne us best in fight; And the good Lord of Rosny hath ta'en the cornet white Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en, The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine. The fiery duke is pricking fast across Saint Up with it high; unfurl it wide-that all the André's plain, host may know How God hath humbled the proud house Ho! maidens of Vienna; Ho! matrons of Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls. Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright; Ho! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the brave. Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are; And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre ! THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. 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? They are bursting on our flanks! Grasp your pikes! Close your ranks! For Rupert never comes, but to conquer, or to fall. They are here they rush on-we are broken-we are gone Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast. And whence are the grapes of the wine-press O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend that ye tread? the right! O evil was the root, and bitter was the Stand back to back, in God's name! and fight fruit, And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod; For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong, Who sate in the high places and slew the saints of God. it to the last! Stout Skippen hath a wound-the centre hath given ground. But hark! what means this trampling of What banner do I see, boys? 'Tis he! thank It was about the noon of a glorious day of Bear up another minute! Brave Oliver is June, here! 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, And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes. When a murmuring sound broke out, and Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook swelled into a shout to hide Among the godless horsemen upon the ty- Their coward heads, predestined to rot on rant's right. 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! 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. Ho, comrades! scour the plain, and ere ye strip the slain, First give another stab to make the quest se cure; The furious German comes, with his trumpets Then shake from sleeves and pockets their and his drums, broad pieces and lockets, His bravoes of Alsatia and pages of White- The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor. hall; |