Rose softly sad and low from distance borne
A plaintive strain that in its dying flight
Fell on the town where other breasts are torn.
’Tis thus in chorus sweet they raise their plaint forlorn:—
The Dirge.
Weep, Biscaya, weep!
’Mongst dead and dying,
On the bloody heap
Is Blanca lying.
William’s sword hath smote