To Vera’s fords, his loud artillery’s roar
Covering the stream. Our men derisive scoft
To see his shells descend destructive o’er
His own astounded troops, their ranks molesting sore.
XVIII.
Ill brooks the Frenchman withering laughter’s scorn:
The Lusitan brigade they swift assail,
Whose head by rapid fire is backward borne.
With wondrous fleetness mounting from the vale,