They had not gone a little way,
An' the child began to call—
"See how the flood runs high, father,
And washes at the wall!"
They had not gone a mickle way,
St Maur began to brood,
"'Tis the bugle cry of Armour,
Shrill over stream and wood."
"And must they slay me, father dear,
And my seven brothers tall?"