Lyra Heroica Part 11

This l.u.s.ty s.h.i.+p of Bristol Sailed out adventurously Against the foes of England, Her strength with them to try; Well victualled, rigged, and manned she was, With good provision still, Which made men cry, 'To sea, to sea, With the Angel Gabriel!'

The Captain, famous Netherway (That was his n.o.ble name): The Master--he was called John Mines-- A mariner of fame: The Gunner, Thomas Watson, A man of perfect skill: With many another valiant heart In the Angel Gabriel.

They waving up and down the seas Upon the ocean main, 'It is not long ago,' quoth they, 'That England fought with Spain: O would the Spaniard we might meet Our stomachs to fulfil!

We would play him fair a n.o.ble bout With our Angel Gabriel!'

They had no sooner spoken But straight appeared in sight Three l.u.s.ty Spanish vessels Of warlike trim and might; With b.l.o.o.d.y resolution They thought our men to spill, And they vowed that they would make a prize Of our Angel Gabriel.

Our gallant s.h.i.+p had in her Full forty fighting men: With twenty piece of ordnance We played about them then, With powder, shot, and bullets Right well we worked our will, And hot and b.l.o.o.d.y grew the fight With our Angel Gabriel.

Our Captain to our Master said, 'Take courage, Master bold!'

Our Master to the seamen said, 'Stand fast, my hearts of gold!'

Our Gunner unto all the rest, 'Brave hearts, be valiant still!

Fight on, fight on in the defence Of our Angel Gabriel!'

We gave them such a broadside, It smote their mast asunder, And tore the bowsprit off their s.h.i.+p, Which made the Spaniards wonder, And caused them in fear to cry, With voices loud and shrill, 'Help, help, or sunken we shall be By the Angel Gabriel!'

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 s.h.i.+ps boarded us Again with might and main, But still our n.o.ble 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.

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 b.l.o.o.d.y spoils, The rest made haste away: For why, they said, it was no boot The longer there to stay.

Then they fled into Cales, Where lie they must and will For fear lest they should meet again With our Angel Gabriel.

We had within our English s.h.i.+p 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 G.o.d still, That thus hath blest our l.u.s.ty hearts And our Angel Gabriel.

x.x.xI

HELEN OF KIRKCONNELL

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.

x.x.xII

THE TWA CORBIES

As I was walking all alane, I heard twa corbies making a mane: The tane unto the t.i.ther say, 'Where sall we gang and dine the day?'

'In behint yon auld fail d.y.k.e 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.'

x.x.xIII

THE BARD

'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 s.h.a.ggy side 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 h.o.a.ry 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 hoa.r.s.er murmurs breathe; Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, To high-born Hoel's harp or soft Llewellyn's lay.