Blow, trumpets, blow the note of charge! and forward to the fight!"
"Amen!" said good Sir Aubrey Vere; "Saint Schism defend the right!"
As sweeps the blast against the mast when blows the furious squall,
So started at the trumpet's sound the terrible Fitzball;
His lance he bore his breast before,—Saint George protect the just!
Or Wordsworth's hoary head must roll along the shameful dust!
"Who threw that calthrop? Seize the knave!" Alas! the deed is done;
Down went the steed, and o'er his head flew bright Apollo's son.
"Undo his helmet! cut the lace! pour water on his head!"
"It ain't no use at all, my lord; 'cos vy? the covey's dead!"