Come， kings， and listen to my song：

    When Gwin， the son of Nore，

    Over the nations of the North

    His cruel sceptre bore；

    The nobles of the land did feed

    Upon the hungry poor；

    They tear the poor man's lamb， and drive

    The needy¹ from their door.

    `The land is desolate²； our wives

    And children cry for bread；

    Arise， and pull the tyrant³ down！

    Let Gwin be humblèd！'

    Gordred the giant rous'd himself

    From sleeping in his cave；

    He shook the hills， and in the clouds

    The troubl'd banners wave.

    Beneath them roll'd， like tempests black，

    The num'rous sons of blood；

    Like lions' whelps， roaring abroad，

    Seeking their nightly food.

    Down Bleron's hills they dreadful rush，

    Their cry ascends⁴ the clouds；

    The trampling⁵ horse and clanging arms

    Like rushing mighty⁶ floods！

    Their wives and children， weeping loud，

    Follow in wild array，

    Howling like ghosts， furious as wolves

    In the bleak⁷ wintry day.

    `Pull down the tyrant to the dust，

    Let Gwin be humblèd，'

    They cry， `and let ten thousand lives

    Pay for the tyrant's head.'

    From tow'r to tow'r the watchmen cry，

    `O Gwin， the son of Nore，

    Arouse thyself！ the nations， black

    Like clouds， come rolling o'er！'

    Gwin rear'd his shield， his palace shakes，

    His chiefs come rushing round；

    Each， like an awful thunder cloud，

    With voice of solemn sound：

    Like rearèd stones around a grave

    They stand around the King；

    Then suddenly each seiz'd his spear，

    And clashing steel does ring.

    The husbandman does leave his plough

    To wade⁸ thro' fields of gore⁹；

    The merchant binds¹⁰ his brows in steel，

    And leaves the trading shore；

    The shepherd leaves his mellow¹¹ pipe，

    And sounds the trumpet¹² shrill¹³；

    The workman throws his hammer down

    To heave the bloody¹⁴ bill.

    Like the tall ghost of Barraton

    Who sports in stormy sky，

    Gwin leads his host， as black as night

    When pestilence¹⁵ does fly，

    With horses and with chariots——

    And all his spearmen bold

    March to the sound of mournful song，

    Like clouds around him roll'd.

    Gwin lifts his hand——the nations halt；

    `Prepare for war！' he cries——

    Gordred appears！——his frowning brow

    Troubles our northern skies.

    The armies stand， like balances

    Held in th' Almighty's hand；——

    `Gwin， thou hast fill'd thy measure up：

    Thou'rt swept from out the land.'

    And now the raging armies rush'd

    Like warring mighty seas；

    The heav'ns are shook with roaring war，

    The dust ascends the skies！

    Earth smokes with blood， and groans¹⁶ and shakes

    To drink her children's gore，

    A sea of blood； nor can the eye

    See to the trembling shore！

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