Now, God be praised, the day is ours. Mayenne hath turned his rein. D’Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish count is slain. Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale; The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van, ‘Remember St. Bartholomew,’ was passed from man to man. But out spake gentle Henry, ‘No Frenchman is my foe: Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go.’ Oh! was there ever such a knight in friendship or in war, As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre?
Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day; And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey. But we of the religion have borne us best in fight; And the good Lord of Rosny has ta’en the cornet white. Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta’en, The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine. Up with it high; unfurl it wide; that all the host may know How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought His Church such woe. Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point of war, Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of Navarre.
Ho! maidens of Vienna; Ho! matrons of Lucerne; Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen’s souls. Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright; Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night. For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the brave. Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are; And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre.
Lord Macaulay.
[ SIR PATRICK SPENS]
The king sits in Dunfermline toun, Drinking the blude-red wine: ‘O whare will I get a skeely skipper To sail this new ship of mine?’
O up and spake an eldern knight, Sat at the king’s right knee— ‘Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor That ever sailed the sea.’
Our king has written a braid letter, And sealed it with his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, Was walking on the strand.
‘To Noroway, to Noroway, To Noroway o’er the faem; The king’s daughter of Noroway, ’Tis thou maun bring her hame.’