Fast, from each volley, grenadier and voltigeur retired. "Push on, my household cavalry!" King Louis madly cried;
To death they rush, but rude their shock, not unavenged they died.
On through the camp the column trod, - King Louis turns his rein:
"Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed, "The Irish troops remain ";
And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo, Were not these exiles ready then, fresh, vehement, and
IDST e'er, dear Heber, pass along
Beneath the towers of Franchemont,
Which, like an eagle's nest in air,
Hangs o'er the stream and hamlet fair?
Deep in their vaults, the peasants say,
A mighty treasure buried lay,
Amassed, through rapine and through wrong,
By the last lord of Franchemont.
The iron chest is bolted hard,
A huntsman sits, its constant guard;
Around his neck his horn is hung,
His hanger in his belt is slung;
Before his feet his bloodhounds lie:
An 't were not for his gloomy eye,
Whose withering glance no heart can brook,
As true a huntsman doth he look,
As bugle e'er in brake did sound,
Or ever hollooed to a hound.
To chase the fiend, and win the prize,
In that same dungeon ever tries
An aged Necromantic priest;
It is an hundred years, at least,
Since 'twixt them first the strife begun,
And neither yet has lost or won.
And oft the conjurer's words will make
The stubborn demon groan and quake;
And oft the bands of iron break,
Or bursts one lock, that still amain,
Fast as 't is opened, shuts again.
That magic strife within the tomb
May last until the day of doom,
Unless the adept shall learn to tell
The very word that clenched the spell,
When Franch'mont locked the treasure-cell.
An hundred years are past and gone,
And scarce three letters has he won.
THEN captaines couragious, whom death cold not daunte,
Did march to the siege of the citty of Gaunt,
They mustred their souldiers by two and by three,
And the formost in battle was Mary Ambree.
When brave Sir John Major was slaine in her sight,
Who was her true lover, her joy, and delight,
Because he was slaine most treacherouslìe,
Then vowd to revenge him Mary Ambree.
She clothed herselfe from the top to the toe
In buffe of the bravest, most seemelye to showe;
A faire shirt of male then slipped on shee;
Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?
A helmett of proofe shee strait did provide,
A strong arminge sword shee girt by her side,
On her hand a goodly faire gauntlett put shee;
Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree ?
Then tooke shee her sworde and her targett in hand
Bidding all such, as wold, bee of her band;
To wayte on her person came thousand and three :
Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?
My soldiers, she saith, soe valiant and bold,
Nowe followe your captaine, whom you doe beholde;
Still formost in battel myself will I bee:
Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree ?
Then cryed out her souldiers, and loude they did say,
Soe well thou becomest this gallant array,
Thy harte and thy weapons soe well do agree,
There was none ever like Mary Ambree.
Shee cheared her souldiers, that foughten for life,
With ancyent and standard, with drum and with fife,
With brave clanging trumpetts, that sounded so free;
Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?
Before I will see the worst of you all
To come into danger of death, or of thrall,
This hand and this life I will venture so free:
Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree ?
Shee led upp her souldiers in battaile array,
Gainst three times theyr number by breake of the daye;
Seven howers in skirmish continued shee:
Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree ?
She filled the skyes with the smoke of her shott,
And her enemyes bodyes with bullets soe hoot;
For one of her owne men a score killed shee:
Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree ?
And when her false gunner, to spoyle her intent,
Away all her pellets and powder had sent,
Straight with her keen weapon shee slasht him in three: Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree ?
Being falselye betrayed for lucre of hyre,
At length she was forced to make a retyre;
Then her souldiers into a strong castle drew shee:
Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?
Then to her owne country shee backe did returne,
Still holding the foes of faire England in scorne:
Therfore English captaines of every degree
Sing forth the brave valours of Mary Ambree.
"COMBIEN faudrait-il de peaux d'Espagne pour faire un gant de cette grandeur?"- -a play upon the words gant, a glove, and Gand, the French for Ghent.
N St. Bavon's tower, commanding
ON St. Baron's
Charles the Emperor was standing,
While beneath him on the landing
Stood Duke Alva and his train.
Like a print in books of fables,
Or a model made for show,
With its pointed roofs and gables,
Dormer windows, scrolls and labels,
Lay the city far below.
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