For the rights of fair England
that broadsword he draws,
Her king is his leader, her
church is his cause,
His watchword is honour, his
pay is renown,—
God strike with the gallant
that strikes for the crown!
They may boast of their Fairfax,
their Waller, and all
The roundheaded rebels of
Westminster Hall;
But tell these bold traitors
of London’s proud town,
That the spears of the north
have encircled the crown.
There ’s Derby and Cavendish,
dread of their foes;
There ’s Erin’s
high Ormond, and Scotland’s Montrose!
Would you match the base Skippon,
and Massey, and Brown,
With the barons of England
that fight for the crown?
Now joy to the crest of the
brave cavalier,
Be his banner unconquer’d,
resistless his spear,
Till in peace and in triumph
his toils he may drown,
In a pledge to fair England,
her church, and her crown!
[85] “Rokeby,” canto fifth.
HUNTING SONG.[86]
Waken, lords and ladies gay,
On the mountain dawns the
day,
All the jolly chase is here,
With hawk, and horse, and
hunting-spear!
Hounds are in their couples
yelling,
Hawks are whistling, horns
are knelling,
Merrily, merrily, mingle they—
“Waken, lords and ladies
gay.”
Waken, lords and ladies gay,
The mist has left the mountain
gray,
Springlets in the dawn are
steaming,
Diamonds on the brake are
gleaming:
And foresters have busy been
To track the buck in thicket
green;
Now we come to chant our lay,
“Waken, lords and ladies
gay.”
Waken, lords and ladies gay,
To the green-wood haste away;
We can shew you where he lies,
Fleet of foot and tall of
size;
We can shew the marks he made
When ’gainst the oak
his antlers fray’d;
You shall see him brought
to bay,
“Waken, lords and ladies
gay.”
Louder, louder chant the lay,
Waken, lords and ladies gay!
Tell them youth, and mirth,
and glee,
Run a course as well as we;
Time, stern huntsman! who
can baulk,
Stanch as hound, and fleet
as hawk?
Think of this, and rise with
day,
Gentle lords and ladies gay.
[86] First published in the continuation of Strutt’s Queenhoohall, 1808, inserted in the Edinburgh Annual Register, of the same year, and set to a Welsh air in Thomson’s Select Melodies, vol. iii., 1817.
OH, SAY NOT, MY LOVE, WITH THAT MORTIFIED AIR.
Oh, say not, my love, with
that mortified air,
That your spring-time
of pleasure is flown;
Nor bid me to maids that are
younger repair,
For those raptures
that still are thine own.