’Tis merry――’tis merry on Brentford Green, When the holiday folk are singing, When the lasses flaunt with lightsome mien, And the Brentford bells are ringing; Well armed in stern unyielding mood. High o’er that Green the Warren stood; A burly man was he, Girt round the waist with ’kerchief blue, And clad in waistcoat dark of hue, And thick buff jerkin gay to view, And breeches of the knee: Beside him stood his trusty band, With hat on head, and club in hand, Loud shouting to the fight; Till answering shrill, street, alley, lane, O’er hill and heather, wood and plain, Sent forth the deepened sounds again, With voice of giant might. Charge, Warren, charge; yon battle Green, Glitters afar with silvery sheen, The lightning of the storm; Where bands of braggarts bluff in mien, With ragged Irishmen are seen, Dreadful and drunken all, I ween, A phalanx fierce to form: Saint George! it was a gallant sight, To ken beneath the morning light, The shifting lines sweep by; In mailed and measured pace they sped, The earth gave back their hollow tread, ’Till you mote think the charnelled dead Were howling to the sky. “Hark, rolls the thunder of the drum, The foe advance――they come, they come! Lay on them,” quoth the Day; “God for the right! on Brentford Heath, Our bugles stern and stormy breath, Summons to victory or to death; Hurrah then, for the fray!” Hurrah, hurrah! from rear to flank, In vengeance rung along each rank; And the red banners (formed by hap Of two old shirts stitched flap to flap)[42] Waved lordlier at the cry: ’Till every proud and painted scrap, Shivered like plume in ’prentice cap, Or cloud in winter sky. The Warren first this squad espied, Ranged man to man in ruffian pride, And to each warrior at his side In vaunting phrase began, “Rush on, ye ragamuffins, rush, All Brentford to a blacking brush, My foeman leads the van.”