“Fair Ida, I fear, you will scarcely find here, Though the room which was hers still you may see, For ‘tis nearly a year since with bow and with spear Hither hastened Sir Marmaduke Tracy. XXVI. “With soldiers in scores, ammunition, and stores, He attacked our unfortunate village; He battered our doors [‘twas the greatest of bores). And allowed all his people to pillage. XXVII. “When {234}the storm ‘gan to lower, folks fled to the tower, Young and old the same thing very soon did; We did all in our power, and young Ida’s own bower Was turned into a ward for the wounded. XXVIII. “For months four or five we continued to strive; None ventured on shirking or shamming, Till one-half of our hive were no longer alive-- Consumed between firing and famine. XXIX. “When our lord ‘gainst the rout could no longer hold out, He gave in, like a sensible covey; No food was about, save one bottle of stout, Half a loaf, and a pot of anchovy. XXX. “Then at length did we let (though with wondrous regret) Sir Marmaduke through the portcullis; And the treatment we met no one there will forget, Unless he a regular gull is. XXXI. “The Tracy began, and took ev’ry tenth man ‘ Of the Baron of Montmolon’s people, Saying, ‘Fly, if ye can, for ye soon will be dan-- Cling from top of the neighbouring steeple. XXXII. “‘Since ye foolishly list, Tracy’s arms to resist, Ye shall see how his mercy shall treat ye; And your wives shall be kissed, if by them ye are missed In your homes, while the carrion eat ye.’ XXXIII. “His {235}men had the knack; not a rope was too slack, Not a victim could loosen or slip cord. Our baron looked black; but his arms ‘hind his back Were fastened together with whipcord. XXXIV. “He hanged these poor chaps, but I fancy that, perhaps, The other men’s lot was the sorest; Without clothes, shoes, or caps, but with plenty of slaps, He turned them adrift in the forest. XXXV. “Some starved, sank, and died; some few went beside Themselves with cold, hunger, and sorrow. ‘Twas little you spied of the Montmolon pride, When you looked at this place on the morrow. XXXVI. “That truculent Goth, Sir Tracy, took both Our lord and his beautiful daughter. ‘To wed me,’ he quoth, ‘though the damsel be loth, To reason I soon shall have brought her.’ XXXVII. “I, escaping from hurt, more by chance than desert (My brother on Tracy’s estate is), Have lived, I assert, sitting here in the dirt, Upon nothing but berries and praties. XXXVIII.