This I got on the day that Goring Fought through York, like a wild beast roaring— The roofs were black, and the streets were full, The doors built up with packs of wool; But our pikes made way through a storm of shot, Barrel to barrel till locks grew hot; Frere fell dead, and Lucas was gone, But the drum still beat and the flag went on. This I caught from a swinging sabre, All I had from a long night’s labor; When Chester 1 flamed, and the streets were red, In splashing shower fell the molten lead, The fire sprang up, and the old roof split, The fire-ball burst in the middle of it; With a clash and a clang the troopers they ran, For the siege was over ere well began. This I got from a pistol butt (Lucky my head ’s not a hazel nut); The horse they raced, and scudded and swore; There were Leicestershire gentlemen, seventy score; Up came the “Lobsters,” covered with steel— Down we went with a stagger and reel; Smash at the flag, I tore it to rag, And carried it off in my foraging bag. Note 1. Siege of Chester, in the civil war, 1645. [back]
The Three Scars
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