III. These drew not for their fields the sword, Like tenants of a feudal lord, Nor own'd the patriarchal claim Of Chieftain in their leader's name; Adventurers[325] they, from far who roved, To live by battle which they loved. There the Italian's clouded face, The swarthy Spaniard's there you trace; The mountain-loving Switzer[326] there More freely breathed in mountain air; The Fleming[327] there despised the soil, That paid so ill the laborer's toil; Their rolls show'd French and German name; And merry England's exiles came, To share, with ill-conceal'd disdain, Of Scotland's pay the scanty gain. All brave in arms, well train'd to wield The heavy halberd, brand, and shield; In camps licentious, wild, and bold; In pillage fierce and uncontroll'd; And now, by holytide[328] and feast, From rules of discipline released. [325] James V. was the first to increase the army furnished by the nobles and their vassals by the addition of a small number of mercenaries. [326] A native of Switzerland. [327] An inhabitant of Flanders, as Belgium was then called. [328] Holiday. IV. They held debate of bloody fray, Fought 'twixt Loch Katrine and Achray. Fierce was their speech, and, 'mid their words, Their hands oft grappled to their swords; Nor sunk their tone to spare the ear Of wounded comrades groaning near, Whose mangled limbs, and bodies gored, Bore token of the mountain sword, Though, neighboring to the Court of Guard, Their prayers and feverish wails were heard; Sad burden to the ruffian joke, And savage oath by fury spoke!-- At length up started John of Brent, A yeoman from the banks of Trent; A stranger to respect or fear, In peace a chaser[329] of the deer, In host[330] a hardy mutineer, But still the boldest of the crew, When deed of danger was to do. He grieved, that day, their games cut short, And marr'd the dicer's brawling sport, And shouted loud, "Renew the bowl! And, while a merry catch I troll, Let each the buxom chorus bear, Like brethren of the brand and spear." [329] Poacher. [330] War. V. SOLDIER'S SONG. Our vicar still preaches that Peter and Poule[331] Laid a swinging[332] long curse on the bonny brown bowl, That there's wrath and despair in the jolly black-jack,[333] And the seven deadly sins in a flagon of sack;[334] Yet whoop, Barnaby! off with thy liquor, Drink upsees out,[335] and a fig for the vicar! Our vicar he calls it damnation to sip The ripe ruddy dew of a woman's dear lip, Says, that Beelzebub[336] lurks in her kerchief so sly, And Apollyon[337] shoots darts from her merry black eye; Yet whoop, Jack! kiss Gillian the quicker, Till she bloom like a rose, and a fig for the vicar!