Farewell, and for ever. The priest and the slave May rule in the halls of the free and the brave. Our hearths we abandon; our lands we resign; But, Father, we kneel to no altar but thine. ***** THE BATTLE OF NASEBY, (1824.) BY OBADIAH BIND-THEIR-KINGS-IN-CHAINS-AND-THEIR-NOBLES-WITH-LINKS-OF-IRON, SERJEANT IN IRETON'S REGIMENT. 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 hath 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. Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row, Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dykes, Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst, And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes. 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.