With such great odds can he compete? The mountain sheep may safely tread The Lammermoor, but men may dread To cross this heath at any time; Much more now, midst the rain and slime, Will Cromwell with the smaller score Dare to cross o'er to Dunbar shore? Tho' shipped were half his guns and men The foe falls ere he turn again. With foresight keen, like one inspired, He saw the end ere Leslie fired. "THE LORD," said he, as rapt he stands, "HATH GIVEN THEM INTO OUR HANDS!" 'Tis the ninth month and second day, A wild, wet night, historians say. Quit you like men, and bravely stand; Death's wrestle now is close at hand; Heed not the hoarse sea's doleful moan, As on the cliffs its waves are thrown. Think not of life nor kindred dear-- Who goes to war should nothing fear But God, whose eye-lids never sleep-- His Israel He will safely keep. Oh, pray! but keep your powder dry-- Your part do, then on God rely. Stand to your arms the whole night thro' Or lie awake with arms in view. And you, ye Scots, your lights blow out, But stay not in your strong redoubt. 'Midst shocks of corn your shelter seek, And rest in sleep; your foe is weak, Yet ere another night comes 'round In deeper slumber shall be found Full many of your stalwart host, And stilled for aye their every boast. In Cromwell's camp all night was heard The voice of prayer in tones which stirred The tender hearts of "Ironside" men, As never can be told by pen. Ere shone the first faint streak of morn, The Scots beneath the shocks of corn, Stretched out full length in quiet sleep, Hear a loud blast, and upward leap To seize their arms and face the foe. Too late the warning! or, too slow Their movements when the trump was heard, Yet rang along the lines the word Of battle-cry by Leslie sent, "_The Covenant! The Covenant!_" While high and strong was Cromwell's boast, "_The Lord of Hosts! The Lord of Hosts!_" With master skill he struck the blow, And when shone out the crimson glow Of morning sun upon the sea, Brave Leslie's men began to flee. "_They run! Oh, I protest they run! Let God arise! Let God arise! And scattered be His enemies!_" Loud Cromwell cried. _The work was done._ Then rose from England's host a cry Which rent the very heavens on high. Now halt they on the battle field And to the Lord their homage yield-- And sing this song with hearts devout: "_O praise the Lord, ye nations all! Laud Him all peoples on this ball! His mercy toward us e'er is great; His truth and grace for sinners wait, Let all the people shout!_" MARSTON MOOR