So desperately they boarded us Full thirty did we kill, And thus we cleared with speed the deck Of our Angel Gabriel. With that their three ships boarded us Cried out, 'A fig for Spain!' 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 bloody spoils, For why, they said, it was no boot Then they fled into Calès, Where lie they must and will For fear lest they should meet again We had within our English ship And five men hurt, the which I hope At Bristol we were landed, And let us praise God still, XXXI HELEN OF KIRKCONNELL I WISH I were where Helen lies, O that I were where Helen lies, Curst be the heart that thought the thought, 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, I lighted down my sword to draw, For her sake that died for me. O Helen fair beyond compare! O that I were where Helen lies! O Helen fair! O Helen chaste! I wish my grave were growing green, On fair Kirkconnell lea. I wish I were where Helen lies! For her sake that died for me. XXXII THE TWA CORBIES As I was walking all alane, I heard twa corbies making a mane: 'Where sall we gang and dine the day?' 'In behint yon auld fail dyke I wot there lies a new-slain knight; But his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair. His hound is to the hunting gane, His lady's ta'en another mate, Sae we may mak' our dinner sweet. Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane, We'll theek our nest when it grows bare. Mony a one for him makes mane, XXXIII THE BARD 'RUIN seize thee, ruthless King! Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail 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 Robed in the sable garb of woe (Loose his beard and hoary hair Streamed like a meteor to the troubled air), '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 hoarser murmurs breathe; |