MARSTON MOOR
(A Cavalier Song)
To horse! to horse! Sir Nicholas, the clarion's
note is high!
To horse! to horse! Sir Nicholas, the big 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,
And the raven 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 banner down the narrow
turret-stair,
Oh! many were the tears that those radiant eyes
had shed,
As she traced the bright word "Glory" in the
gay and glancing thread;
And mournful was the smile which o'er those
lovely 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,
Midst the steel-clad files of Skippon, the
black dragoons of Pride;
The recreant heart of Fairfax shall feel a
sicklier qualm,
And the rebel lips of Oliver give out a
louder psalm,
When they see my lady's gewgaw flaunt proudly
on their wing,
And hear her loyal soldier's shout, 'For God
and for the King.'"
'Tis noon. The ranks are broken, along the
royal line
They fly, the braggarts of the court! the
bullies of the Rhine!
Stout Langdale'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
their flight,
"The German boor had better far have supped in
York to-night."
The knight is left alone, his steel-cap cleft
in twain,
His good buff jerkin crimsoned o'er with many
a gory stain;
Yet still he waves his banner, 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 now he quotes a stage-play, and now he
fells a knave.
God aid thee now, Sir Nicholas! thou hast no
thought of fear;
God aid thee now, Sir Nicholas! for fearful odds
are here!
The rebels hem thee in, and at every cut 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
This day were doing battle for the Saints and
for the Lord!"
The Lady Alice sits with her maidens in her bower,
The gray-haired warder watches from the castle's
topmost tower;
"What news? what news, old Hubert?"—"The battle's
lost and won;
The royal troops are melting, like mists before
the sun!
And a wounded man approaches;—I'm blind, and
cannot see,
Yet sure I am that sturdy step my master's step
must be!"
"I've brought thee back thy banner, wench, from
as rude and red a fray,
As e'er was proof of soldier's thew or theme for
minstrel's lay!
Here, Hubert, bring the silver bowl, and liquor
quantum suff.,
I'll make a shift to drain it yet, ere I part with
boots and buff;—
Though Guy through many a gaping wound is breathing
forth 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 land's
mischance:
For if the worst befall me, why, better axe
and rope,
Than life with Lenthal for a king, and Peters
for a pope!
Alas! alas! my gallant Guy!—curse on the
crop-eared boor,
Who sent me with my standard, on foot from
Marston Moor!"
W. M. Praed