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So desperately they boarded us

For all our valiant shot,
Threescore of their best fighting men

Upon our decks were got;
And lo! at their first entrances

Full thirty did we kill, And thus we cleared with speed the deck

Of our Angel Gabriel.

With that their three ships boarded us

Again with might and main, But still our noble Englishmen

Cried out, 'A fig for Spain!' Though seven times they boarded us

At last we showed our skill, And made them feel what men we were

On the Angel Gabriel.

Seven hours this fight continued:

So many men lay dead,
With Spanish blood for fathoms round

The sea was coloured red.
ve hundred of their fighting men

We there outright did kill,
And many more were hurt and maimed

By our Angel Gabriel.

Then, seeing of these bloody spoils,

The rest made haste away:
For why, they said, it was no boot

The longer there to stay.

Then they fled into Calès,

Where lie they must and will
For fear lest they should meet again

With our Angel Gabriel.

We had within our English ship

But only three men slain,
And five men hurt, the which I hope

Will soon be well again.
At Bristol we were landed,

And let us praise God still,
That thus hath blest our lusty hearts

And our Angel Gabriel.



I wish I were where Helen lies,
Night and day on me she cries;
O that I were where Helen lies,

On fair Kirkconnell lea!

Curst be the heart that thought the thought,
And curst the hand that fired the shot,
When in my arms burd Helen dropt,

And died to succour me!

O thinkna ye my heart was sair
When my love dropt down, and spak' nae mair?
There did she swoon wi’ meikle care,

On fair Kirkconnell lea.

As I went down the water side,
None but my foe to be my guide,
None but my foe to be my guide

On fair Kirkconnell lea;
I lighted down my sword to draw,
I hacked him in pieces sma’,
I hacked him in pieces sma’

For her sake that died for me.

O Helen fair beyond compare !
I'll mak' a garland o' thy hair,
Shall bind my heart for evermair,

Until the day I dee!
O that I were where Helen lies!
Night and day on me she cries;
Out of my bed she bids me rise,

Says, 'Haste, and come to me!'

O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!
If I were with thee I were blest,
Where thou lies low and takes thy rest,

On fair Kirkconnell lea.

I wish my grave were growing green, A winding-sheet drawn ower my e’en, And I in Helen's arms lying

On fair Kirkconnell lea.

I wish I were where Helen lies!
Night and day on me she cries,
And I am weary of the skies

For her sake that died for me.



As I was walking all alane,
I heard twa corbies making a mane:
The tane unto the tither say,
'Where sall we gang and dine the day?'

'In behint yon auld fail dyke
I wot there lies a new-slain knight;
And naebody kens that he lies there
But his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair.

His hound is to the hunting gane,
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,
His lady's ta'en another mate,
Sae we may mak’ our dinner sweet.

Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,
And I'll pike out his bonny blue e’en:
Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair
We'll theek our nest when it grows bare.

Mony a one for him makes mane,
But nane sall ken where he is gane:
O’er his white banes, when they are bare,
The wind sall blaw for evermair.'



'Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!

Confusion on thy banners wait!
Though fanned by Conquest's crimson wing

They mock the air with idle state.
Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail,
Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail
To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,
From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!'
Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride

Of the first Edward scattered wild dismay,
As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side

He wound with toilsome march his long array: Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance; "To arms!' cried Mortimer, and couched his quiver

ing lance.

On a rock, whose haughty brow
Frowns o’er old Conway's foaming flood,

Robed in the sable garb of woe
With haggard eyes the Poet stood
(Loose his beard and hoary hair
Streamed like a meteor to the troubled air),
And with a master's hand and prophet's fire
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre:
'Hark, how each giant oak and desert-cave

Sighs to the torrent’s awful voice beneath! O’er thee, O King! their hundred arms they wave,

Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe;

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