They now to fight are gone; That with the cries they make Well it thine age became, The English archery Struck the French horses, With Spanish yew so strong, When down their bows they threw, And on the French they flew, Arms were from shoulders sent; Our men were hardy. This while our noble king, And many a deep wound lent, Glo'ster, that duke so good, Warwick in blood did wade; Still as they ran up. Suffolk his axe did ply; Upon Saint Crispin's day MICHAEL DRAYTON. LOCHINVAR. O, young Lochinvar is come out of the West, none He rode all unarm'd and he rode all alone. There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. He stayed not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone, The bride had consented, the gallant came late; So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, 'Mong bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers and all. Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), "O, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ?" "I long woo'd your daughter-my suit you denied ;- The bride kiss'd the goblet, the knight took it up, He quaff'd off the wine and he threw down the cup. She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar:"Now tread we a measure," said young Lochinvar. So stately his form, and so lovely her face, While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bride-maidens whisper'd, ""Twere better by far To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochin var." One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! "She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar. There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran; There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ? THE GLOVE. [The original of this story is in St. Foix; the date is the reign of Francis the First.] Before his lion-court, To see the grisly sport, Sate the king; Beside him grouped his princely peers, Wreathed round their blooming ring. King Francis, where he sate, Raised a finger, yawned the gate, And, slow from his repose, A lion goes! Dumbly he gazed around A tiger sprung! Wildly the wild one yelled And, bristling at the look, In many a wary ring He swept round the forest king, |