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-With foot in stirrup, hand on mane,
Fierce Edward Bruce can scarce restrain
His own keen heart, his eager train,
Then, “ Mount, ye gallants free !"
And loud shouts Edward Bruce,
6. Forth, Marshal, on the peasant foe!
We'll tame the terrors of their bow,
And cut the bow-string loose !"
Then spurs were dash'd in chargers' flanks, They rush'd among the archer ranks.
No spears were there the shock to let,
No stakes to turn the charge were set, And how shall yeoman's armour slight Stand the long lance and mace of might? Or what may their short swords avail,
'Gainst barbed horse and shirt of mail ?
Amid their ranks the chargers sprung,
The broken bows of Bannock's shore
Shall in the green-wood ring no more ! Round Wakefield's merry may-pole now, The maids may twine the summer bough,
May northward look with longing glance,
For the blithe archers look in vain !
Broken, dispersed, in flight o'erta'en,
LI Pierced through; trode down, by thousands slain, They cumber Bannock’s bloody plain.
The King with scorn beheld their flight.
Twelve Scottish lives his baldric bore !
Fitter to plunder chase or park,
To rightward of the wild affray,
But, in mid-space, the Bruce's care
Had bored the ground with many a pit,
That form'd a ghastly snare.
in rest, and hearts on flame,
As far as Stirling rock.
Wild floundering on the field !
The knightly helm and shield,
cry Of dying warriors swells on high, And steeds that shriek in agony !
They came like mountain-torrent red,
Too strong in courage and in might
Her noblest all are here;
Names that to fear were never known,
And Oxford's famed De Vere.
There Gloster plied the bloody sword,
Bottetourt and Sanzavere,