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'Tis the better, my mates ! for the warder's dull
eye Shall in confidence slumber, nor dream we are
Our steeds are impatient! I hear my blithe Gray! There is life in his hoof-clang, and hope in his
neigh; Like the flash of a meteor, the glance of his mane Shall marshal your march through the darkness
The drawbridge has dropp’d, the bugle has blown ; One pledge is to quaff yet—then mount and
begone !To their honour and peace, that shall rest with the
slain ; To their health and their glee, that see Teviot
WRITTEN FOR MR. GEORGE THOMSON'S WELSH MELODIES.
ETHELFRID, or OLFRID, King of Northumberland,
having besieged Chester in 613, and BROCKMAEL, a British Prince, advancing to relieve it, the religious of the neighbouring Monastery of Bangor marched in procession, to pray for the success of their countrymen. But the British being totally defeated, the heathen victor put the monks to the sword, and destroyed their monastery. The tune to which these verses are adapted, is called the Monks' March, and is supposed to have been played at their ill-omened procession.
When the heathen trumpet's clang
High their holy anthem sounds,
O miserere, Domine!
On the long procession goes,
O miserere, Domine !
Bands that masses only sung,
O miserere, Domine !
Weltering amid warriors slain,
Sing, O miserere, Domine!
Bangor! o'er the murder wail !
O miserere, Domine ! FAREWELL TO THE MUSE.
1 William of Malmsbury says, that in his time the extent of the ruins of the monastery bore ample witness to the desolation occasioned by the massacre;—“tot semiruti parietes ecclesiarum, tot anfractus porticum, tanta turba ruderum quantum vix alibi cernas."
ENCHANTRESS, farewell, who so oft has decoy'd me, At the close of the evening through woodlands
to roam, Where the forester, lated, with wonder espied me Explore the wild scenes he was quitting for
home. Farewell, and take with thee thy numbers wild
speaking The language alternate of rapture and woe: Oh! none but some lover, whose heart-strings are
breaking, The pang that I feel at our parting can know.
Each joy thou couldst double, and when there came
sorrow, Or pale disappointment to darken my way, What voice was like thine, that could sing of to
morrow, Till forgot in the strain was the grief of to-day!
1[Written, during illness, for Mr. Thomson's Scottish Collection, and first published in 1822, united to an air composed by George Kinloch of Kinloch, Esq.]