by Thomas Babbington Macaulay

'To bind their kings with chains
And their nobles with fetters of iron;
To execute upon them the judgment written
This honour have all his saints’

Oh wherefore come ye forth
In all your triumph from the north
With your hands and with your feet
And with your raiment red
And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout
And whence be the grapes of the vintage that ye tread
Oh evil was the root and bitter was the fruit
And crimson were the juices of the wine-press that we trod
For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong
Who sate in the high places and slew the saints of God

Where be your tongues that late mocked
At heaven and hell and fate
And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades
Your perfumed satin clothes your catches and your oaths
Your sonnets and your stage plays
Your diamonds and your spades

It was early afternoon of a glorious day in June
When we saw their banners dance and their cuirasses shine
And the man of blood was there with his long essenced hair
And Astley and Sir Marmaduke and Rupert of the Rhine
Like the servant of the Lord with a bible and a sword
Our Generals strode among us to perform the rites
When a murmuring broke out that swelled into a shout
From among the Godless horsemen
Down upon the Tyrant’s right
Their heads all stooping low their points all in a row
Like a whirlwind on the trees like a deluge on the dikes
Our cavalrymen have burst on the ranks of the accurst
And at a shock have scattered all the forest of his pikes

Fast fast the gallants ride in some safe nook to hide
Those coward heads we’ll set to rot on Temple Bar
And him he turns he flies shame on those cruel eyes
That bore to look on torture and dare not look on war
And the See of seven hills shall mourn her children's ills
And tremble when she thinks upon our English sword
And the kings of Earth in fear
Shall shudder when they hear
What the hand of God hath riven
For the houses and the word

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