And like an eagle o'er his aery towers,
To souse annoyance that comes near his nest,
And you degenerate, you ingrate revolts,
You bloody Neroes, ripping up the womb
Of your dear mother England, blush for shame;
For your own ladies and pale-visaged maids
Like Amazons come tripping after drums,
Their thimbles into armed gauntlets change,
Their needles to lances, and their gentle hearts
To fierce and bloody inclination.

Lewis. There end thy brave, and turn thy face in

peace;

We grant thou canst outscold us; fare thee well;
We hold our time too precious to be spent

Strike up the drums; and let the tongue of war

Plead for our interest and our being here,

Bastard. Indeed, your drums, being beaten, will cry

out;

And so shall you, being beaten: do but start

An echo with the clamour of thy drum,

And even at hand a drum is ready braced
That shall reverberate as loud as thine;
Sound but another, and another shall
As loud as thine rattle the welkin's ear

And mock the deep mouth'd thunder: for at hand,
Not trusting to this halting legate here,

Whom he hath used rather for sport than need,

THE FRENCH AT ST. EDMUNDSBURY

Is warlike John; and in his forehead sits
A bare-ribbed death, whose office is this day
To feast upon whole thousands of the French.
Strike up our drums, to find this danger out,
And thou shalt find it, Dauphin, do not doubt.
William Shakespeare: King John, Act V., Sc. ii.

BRUCE TO HIS MEN AT BANNOCKBURN

June 24, 1314 A.D.

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled;
Scots, wham Bruce has often led;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victorie!

Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front o' battle lour;

See approach proud Edward's pow'r-
Chains and slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor-knave?

Wha can fill a coward's grave?

Wha sae base as be a slave ?
Let him turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,

Freeman stand, or freeman fa',

Let him follow me!

BRUCE TO HIS MEN AT BANNOCKBURN

By oppression's woes and pains,
By your sons in servile chains,
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!
Let us do, or die!

Robert Burns.

THE SONG OF THE BOW

What of the bow?

The bow was made in England: Of true wood, of yew wood,

The wood of English bows;

For men who are free

Love the old yew-tree,

And the land where the yew-tree grows.

What of the cord?

The cord was made in England:

A rough cord, a tough cord,

A cord that bowmen love;

And so we will sing

Of the hempen string,

And the land where the cord was wove.

What of the shaft?

The shaft was cut in England:

A long shaft, a strong shaft,

Barbed and trim and true;

So we'll drink all together

To the grey goose feather,

And the land where the grey goose flew.