SIR NICHOLAS AT MARSTON MOOR
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 on our ears.
To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! White Guy is
at the door,
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;
And mournful was the smile which 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,
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 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 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,
His good buff jerkin crimsoned o'er with many
a gory stain;
Yet 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.
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
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;
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 stiff.;
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;
Or, if the worst betide me, why, better axe or
rope,
Than life with Lenthal for a king, and Peters
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!"
——W. M. Praed.