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On the Spaniard's beach they landed,
Dead to pity, void of fear,— ·
Round their blood-red flag embanded,
Led by Morgan the Buccaneer.

Dawn till dusk they stormed the castle,
Beat the gates and gratings down;
Then, with ruthless rout and wassail,
Night and day they sacked the town,
Staved the bins its cellars boasted,
Port and Lisbon, tier on tier,
Quaffed to heart's content, and toasted
Harry Morgan the Buccaneer:

Stripped the church and monastery,
Racked the prior for his gold,
With the traders' wives made merry,
Lipped the young and mocked the old,

Diced for hapless señoritas

(Sire and brother bound anear),—

Juanas, Lolas, Manuelitas,

Cursing Morgan the Buccaneer.

Lust and rapine, flame and slaughter,
Forayed with the Welshman grim:
"Take my pesos, spare my daughter!"
"Ha! ha!" roared that devil's limb,
"These shall jingle in our pouches,

She with us shall find good cheer."
"Lash the graybeard till he crouches!"
Shouted Morgan the Buccaneer.

Out again through reef and breaker,
While the Spaniard moaned his fate,
Back they voyaged to Jamaica,

Flush with doubloons, coins of eight,
Crosses wrung from Popish varlets,
Jewels torn from arm and ear,——

Jesu! how the Jews and harlots
Welcomed Morgan the Buccaneer!

Edmund Clarence Stedman [1833-1908]

THE LAMENTABLE BALLAD OF THE BLOODY

BROOK

[SEPTEMBER 18, 1675]

COME listen to the Story of brave Lathrop and his Men,— How they fought, how they died,

When they marched against the Red Skins in the Autumn Days, and then

How they fell, in their pride,

By Pocumtuck Side.

"Who will go to Deerfield Meadows and bring the ripened Grain?"

Said old Mosely to his men in Array.

"Take the Wagons and the Horses, and bring it back again: But be sure that no Man stray

All the Day, on the Way."

Then the Flower of Essex started, with Lathrop at their head,

Wise and brave, bold and true.

He had fought the Pequots long ago, and now to Mosely said, "Be there Many, be there Few,

I will bring the Grain to you."

They gathered all the Harvest, and marched back on their Way,

Through the Woods which blazed like Fire.

No Soldier left the Line of march to wander or to stray,

Till the Wagons were stalled in the Mire,

And the Beasts began to tire.

The Wagons have all forded the Brook as it flows,

And then the Rear-Guard stays

To pick the purple Grapes that are hanging from the Boughs, When, crack!-to their Amaze,

A hundred Fire-locks blaze!

Brave Lathrop, he lay dying; but as he fell he cried, “Each Man to his Tree," said he,

"Let no one yield an Inch; " and so the Soldier died; And not a Man of all can see

Where the Foe can be.

And Philip and his Devils pour in their Shot so fast,

From behind and before,

That Man after Man is shot down and breathes his last.
Every Man lies dead in his Gore

To fight no more,-no more!

Oh, weep, ye Maids of Essex, for the Lads who have died,—
The Flower of Essex they!

The Bloody Brook still ripples by the black Mountain-side,
But never shall they come again to see the ocean-tide,
And never shall the Bridegroom return to his Bride,
From that dark and cruel Day, cruel Day!

Edward Everett Hale [1822-1909]

THE SONG OF THE WESTERN MEN

[1688]

A GOOD Sword and a trusty hand!
A merry heart and true!

King James's men shall understand

What Cornish lads can do.

And have they fixed the where and when?
And shall Trelawny die?

Here's twenty thousand Cornish men
Will know the reason why!

Out spake their captain brave and bold,
A merry wight was he:

"If London Tower were Michael's hold,
We'll set Trelawny free!

"We'll cross the Tamar, land to land,
The Severn is no stay,

With 'One and all!' and hand in hand,
And who shall bid us nay?

"And when we come to London Wall,
A pleasant sight to view,

Come forth! come forth, ye cowards all,
Here's men as good as you!

"Trelawny he's in keep and hold,
Trelawny he may die;

But here's twenty thousand Cornish bold

Will know the reason why!"

Robert Stephen Hawker [1803-1875]

BONNIE DUNDEE

From "The Doom of Devoirgoil "

[1689]

To the Lords of Convention 'twas Claver'se who spoke,
"Ere the King's crown shall fall, there are crowns to be broke;

So let each Cavalier who loves honor and me
Come follow the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee!

"Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,
Come saddle your horses, and call up your men;
Come open the West Port and let me gang free,
And it's room for the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee !"

Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street,
The bells are rung backward, the drums they are beat;
But the Provost, douce man, said, "Just e'en let him be,
The Gude Town is well quit of that deil of Dundee!"

As he rode doun the sanctified bends of the Bow,
Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her pow;

But the young plants of grace they looked couthie and slee,
Thinking, Luck to thy bonnet, thou Bonnie Dundee!

With sour-featured Whigs the Grass-market was thranged,

As if half the West had set tryst to be hanged;

There was spite in each look, there was fear in each e'e,

As they watched for the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee.

These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had spears,
And lang-hafted gullies to kill cavaliers;

But they shrunk to close-heads, and the causeway was free
At the toss of the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee.

He spurred to the foot of the proud Castle rock,
And with the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke:

"Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak twa words or three, For the love of the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee."

The Gordon demands of him which way he goes.
"Where'er shall direct me the shade of Montrose!
Your Grace in short space shall hear tidings of me,
Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee.

"There are hills beyond Pentland, and lands beyond Forth; If there's lords in the Lowlands, there's chiefs in the North; There are wild Duniewassals three thousand times three Will cry 'Hoigh!' for the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee.

"There's brass on the target of barkened bull-hide,
There's steel in the scabbard that dangles beside;
The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash free,
At a toss of the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee.

"Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks,-
Ere I own an usurper, I'll couch with the fox;
And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee,
You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me!"

He waved his proud hand, and the trumpets were blown,
The kettle-drums clashed, and the horsemen rode on,
Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Clermiston's lea
Died away the wild war-notes of Bonnie Dundee.

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