Page:Poetical sketches reprint (1868).djvu/47

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OME, 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 needy from their door!

The land is desolate; our wives And children cry for bread; Arise, and pull the tyrant down, Let Gwin be humbled.

Gordred the giant roused himself From sleeping in his cave; He shook the hills, and in the clouds The troubled banners wave.