I've heard the thundering tramp of horse, and the trumpet's battle-call;
And these old eyes have seen a fight, which England ne'er had seen,
Since fell King Richard sobbed his soul through blood on Bosworth Green.
"'He's dead, he's dead, the Laureate's dead!' 'Twas thus the cry began,
And straightway every garret-roof gave up its minstrel man;
From Grub Street, and from Houndsditch, and from Farringdon Within,
The poets all towards Whitehall poured on with eldritch din.
"Loud yelled they for Sir James the Graham; but sore afraid was he;
A hardy knight were he that might face such a minstrelsie.
'Now by St. Giles of Netherby, my patron Saint, I swear,