For, like mad Tom's,* our chiefest care, Was horse to ride, and weapon wear. Such nights we've had; and, though the game Of manhood be more sober tame, And though the field-day, or the drill, Seem less important now-yet still Such may we hope to share again. The sprightly thought inspires my strain ! And mark, how like a horseman true, Lord Marmion's march I thus renew. * See King Lear. EUSTACE, I said, did blithely mark The first notes of the merry lark. But soon their mood was changed; Some clamour'd loud for armour lost; Some brawl'd and wrangled with the host; By Becket's bones," cried one, "I fear "That some false Scot has stolen my spear!". Young Blount, Lord Marmion's second squire, Found his steed wet with sweat and mire ; Although the rated horse-boy sware, Last night he dress'd him sleek and fair. Old Hubert shouts, in fear and wonder, "Help, gentle Blount! help, comrades all! "Bevis lies dying in his stall: "To Marmion who the plight dare tell, "Of the good steed he loves so well ?" Gaping for fear and ruth, they saw The charger panting on his straw ; Till one, who would seem wisest, cried, "What else but evil could betide, "With that cursed Palmer for our guide? |