RUPERT'S MARCH. The water was churn'd as we wheel'd and we turn'd, And the dry brake to scare out the vermin we burn'd. We gave our halloo, and our trumpet we blew ; Of all their stout fifty we left them but two; With a mock and a laugh, won their banner and staff, And trod down the cornets as thrashers do chaff. Saddle my roan, his back is a throne, Look to your match, or some harm you may catch, So I'm told by this shivering, white-liver'd scout. We came over the downs, through village and towns, See black on each roof, at the sound of our hoof, The Puritans gather, but keep them aloof; Their muskets are long, and they aim at a throng, Our pike-men rush in, and the struggle is o'er. Storm through the gate, batter the plate, Cram the red crucible into the grate; Saddle-bags fill, Bob, Jenkin, and Will, And spice the staved wine that runs out like a rill. That maiden shall ride all to-day by my side, Those ribbons are fitting a Cavalier's bride. Does Baxter say right, that a bodice laced tight, RUPERT'S MARCH. Down on your knees, you villains in frieze, A draught to King Charles, or a swing from those trees; The ladies will pardon the noise and the shock. Now loop me this scarf round the broken pike-staff, And hang out the pennon of crimson and blue; A volley of shot is a welcoming hot; It cannot be troop of the murdering Scot? Fire the old mill on the brow of the hill, Now look to your buff, for steel is the stuff We'll shake their red roofs with our echoing hoofs, THE MINUTE GUN. WHEN in the storm on Albion's coast Swift on the shore a hardy few And dare the dangerous wave: Through the wild surf they cleave their way, Lost in the form, nor know dismay, For they go the crew to save. But, oh! what rapture fills each breast Of the hopeless crew of the ship distress'd! Then, landed safe, what joy to tell Of all the dangers that befell! Then heard is no more, By the watch on shore, The minute gun at sea. |