E en the cripple threw down his crutches, And danced against his will: Young and old they all fell a-dancing, While the fiddlers fiddled their fill. They fiddled down to the ferry-- The ferry by Severn-side, And they stept aboard the ferry, None else to row or guide, And deftly steered the pilot, And stoutly the oars they plied. Then suddenly in the mid-channel These fiddlers ceased to row, And the pilot spake to his fellows In a tongue that none may know: "Let us home to our fathers and brothers, And the maidens we love below." Then the fiddlers seized their fiddles, And sang to their fiddles a song: "We are coming, coming, oh brothers, To the home we have left so long, For the world still loves the fiddler, And the fiddler's tune is strong." Then they stept from out the ferry Into the Severn-sea, Down into the depths of the waters Where the homes of the fiddlers be, And the ferry-boat drifted slowly Forth to the ocean free! But where those jolly fiddlers Walked down into the deep, The ripples are never quiet, But for ever dance and leap, Though the Severn-sea be silent, And the winds be all asleep. ----Sebastian Evans. [Illustration: 0304] SIR NICHOLAS AT MARSTON MOOR |To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! the clarion's note is high; To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! the big drum makes reply: Ere this hath Lucas marched with his gallant cavaliers, And the bray of Rupert's trumpets grows fainter on our ears. To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! White Guy is at the door, And the vulture whets his beak o'er the field of Marston Moor. Up rose the Lady Alice from her brief and broken prayer, And she brought a silken standard down the narrow turret stair. Oh, many were the tears that those radiant eyes had shed, As she worked the bright word "Glory"in the gay and glancing thread; And mournful was the smile which o'er those beauteous features ran, As she said, "It is your lady's gift; unfurl it in the van." "It shall flutter, noble wench, where the best and boldest ride, Through the steel-clad files of Skippon, and the black dragoons of Pride; The recreant soul of Fairfax will feel a sicklier qualm, And the rebel lips of Oliver give out a louder psalm, When they see my lady's gew-gaw flaunt bravely on their wing, And hear her loyal soldier's shout, For God and for the King! 'Tis noon; the ranks are broken along the royal line; They fly, the braggarts of the Court, the bullies of the Rhine: Stout Langley's cheer is heard no more, and Astley's helm is down, And Rupert sheathes his rapier with a curse and with a frown; And cold Newcastle mutters, as he follows in the flight, "The German boar had better far have supped in York to-night.''