And he scoffed at those who suffered such a horde of boors to beat them;
But his scorn was changed to anger, when on front and flank were falling,
From the fences, walls, and roadside, drifts of leaden hail appalling;
And his picked and chosen soldiers, who had never shrunk in battle,
Hurried quicker in their panic when they heard the firelocks rattle.
Tell it not in Gath, Lord Percy, never Ascalon let hear it,
That you fled from those you taunted as devoid of force and spirit;
That the blacksmith, weaver, farmer, leaving forging, weaving, tillage,
Fully paid with coin of bullets base marauders for their pillage;
They, you said, would fly in terror, Britons and their bayonets shunning;