So desperately they boarded us For all our valiant shot, Full thirty did we kill, And thus we cleared with speed the deck Of our Angel Gabriel. With that their three ships boarded us And made them feel what men we were Seven hours this fight continued: With Spanish blood for fathoms round The sea was coloured red. Five 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, For why, they said, it was no boot Then they fled into Calès, Where lie they must and will For fear lest they should meet again We had within our English ship Will soon be well again. At Bristol we were landed, And let us praise God still, XXXI HELEN OF KIRKCONNELL I WISH I were where Helen lies, O that I were where Helen lies, Curst be the heart that thought the thought, 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, I lighted down my sword to draw, For her sake that died for me. O Helen fair beyond compare! O that I were where Helen lies! Says, 'Haste, and come to me!' O Helen fair! O Helen chaste! 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! For her sake that died for me. XXXII THE TWA CORBIES As I was walking all alane, I heard twa corbies making a mane: 'In behint yon auld fail dyke I wot there lies a new-slain knight; 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, O'er his white banes, when they are bare, The wind sall blaw for evermair.' XXXIII THE BARD 'RUIN seize thee, ruthless King! Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail He wound with toilsome march his long array: Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance; "To arms!' cried Mortimer, and couched his quivering 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), Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath! |