The Battle of Naseby

[The Battle of Naseby, fought in 1645 was fiercely contested but ended in the destruction of the Royalist army. Leaders on the Parliament side were Ireton, Skippon and Cromwell under Lord Fairfax. Under the King were Astley, Sir Marmaduke Langdale, and the King's nephew and best general, Prince Rupert.]

OH! wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the North,

With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red?

And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout?

And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which ye tread?

Oh, evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit,

And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod;

For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong,

Who sate in the high places, and slew the saints of God.

It was about the noon of a glorious day of June,

That we saw their banners dance, and their cuirasses shine,

And the Man of Blood was there, with his long essenced hair,

And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the Rhine.

Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword,

The General rode along us to form us to the fight,

When a murmuring sound broke out, and swell'd into a shout,

Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's right.

And hark! like the roar of the billows on the shore,

The cry of battle rises along their charging line!

For God! for the Cause! for the Church! for the Laws!

For Charles King of England and Rupert of the Rhine!

The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums,

His bravoes of Alsatia, and pages of Whitehall;

They are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your pikes, close your ranks;

For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall.

They are here! They rush on! We are broken! We are gone!

Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast.

O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the right!

Stand back to back, in God's name, and fight it to the last.

Stout Skippon has a wound; the centre hath given ground:

Hark! hark!--What means the trampling of horsemen on our rear?

Whose banner do I see, boys? 'Tis he, thank God, 'tis he, boys,

Bear up another minute: brave Oliver is here.

Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide

Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar;

And he--he turns, he flies:--shame on those cruel eyes

That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war.

Ho! comrades scour the plain; and, ere ye strip the slain,

First give another stab to make your search secure,

Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces and lockets,

The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor.

Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were gay and bold,

When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans to-day;

And to-morrow shall the fox, from her chambers in the rocks,

Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey.

Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven and hell and fate,

And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades,

Your perfum'd satin clothes, your catches and your oaths,

Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades?

Down, down, for ever down with the mitre and the crown,

With the Belial of the Court and the Mammon of the Pope;

There is woe in Oxford halls: there is wail in Durham's Stalls:

The Jesuit smites his bosom: the Bishop rends his cope.

And She of the seven hills shall mourn her children's ills,

And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England's sword;

And the Kings of earth in fear shall shudder when they hear

What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and the Word.

Thomas Babbington Macaulay

The Cavalier's March to London

Here warlike cobblers railed from tops of casks

At lords and love-locks, monarchy and masques.

There many a graceless page blaspheming reel'd,

From his dear cards and bumpers, to the field:

The famished rooks, impatient of delay,

Gnaw their cogg'd dice and curse the lingering prey:

His sad Andromache, with fruitless care,

Paints her wan lips and braids her borrowed hair:

For Church and King he quits his favorite arts,

Forsakes his Knaves, forsakes his Queen of Hearts:

For Church and King he burns to stain with gore

His doublet, stained with nought but sack before.

          -From a MS. Poem

TO horse! to horse! brave Cavaliers!

To horse for Church and Crown!

Strike, strike your tents! snatch up your spears!

And ho for London town!

The imperial harlot, doom'd a prey

To our avenging fires,

Sends up the voice of her dismay

From all her hundred spires.

The Strand resounds with maidens' shrieks,

The 'Change with merchants' sighs,

And blushes stand on brazen cheeks,

And tears in iron eyes;

And, pale with fasting and with fright,

Each Puritan Committee

Hath summon'd forth to prayer and fight

The Roundheads of the City.

And soon shall London's sentries hear

The thunder of our drum,

And London's dames, in wilder fear,

Shall cry, Alack! They come!

Fling the fascines;--tear up the spikes;

And forward one and all.

Down, down with all their train-band pikes,

Down with their mud-built wall.

Quarter?--Foul fall your whining noise,

Ye recreant spawn of fraud!

No quarter! Think on Strafford, boys.

No quarter! Think on Laud.

What ho! The craven slaves retire.

On! Trample them to mud,

No quarter!--Charge--No quarter!--Fire.

No quarter!--Blood!--Blood!--Blood!--

Where next? In sooth there lacks no witch,

Brave lads, to tell us where,

Sure London's sons be passing rich,

Her daughters wondrous fair:

And let that dastard be the theme

Of many a board's derision,

Who quails for sermon, cuff, or scream

Of any sweet Precisian.

Their lean divines, of solemn brow,

Sworn foes to throne and steeple,

From an unwonted pulpit now

Shall edify the people:

Till the tir'd hangman, in despair,

Shall curse his blunted shears,

And vainly pinch, and scrape, and tear,

Around their leathern ears.

We'll hang, above his own Guildhall,

The city's grave Recorder,

And on the den of thieves we'll fall,

Though Pym should speak to order.

In vain the lank-haired gang shall try

To cheat our martial law;

In vain shall Lenthall trembling cry

That strangers must withdraw.

Of bench and woolsack, tub and chair,

We'll build a glorious pyre,

And tons of rebel parchment there

Shall crackle in the fire.

With them shall perish, cheek by jowl,

Petition, psalm and libel,

The Colonel's canting muster-roll,

The Chaplain's dog-ear'd Bible.

We'll tread a measure round the blaze

Where England's past expires,

And lead along the dance's maze

The beauties of the friars:

Then smiles in every face shall shine,

And joy in every soul.

Bring forth, bring forth the oldest wine,

And crown the largest bowl.

And as with nod and laugh ye sip

The goblet's rich carnation,

Whose bursting bubbles seem to tip

The wink of invitation;

Drink to those names,--those glorious names,--

Those names no time shall sever,--

Drink, in draught as deep as Thames,

Our Church and King forever!

Thomas Babbington Macaulay