FEINBERG/WHITMAN
Box 42 Folder 42

NOTES and NOTEBOOKS

NOTES--Reference [Jan. 1855 (?)] Battle of Nasby1287
1855? Battle of Nasby: clipping of poem with corrections. A.MS.

(1p. 54½ x 13 cm.)

Written in ink and pencil on a small scrap of paper, to which has
been pasted a piece of paper, and clippings, one of them a
long one containing the text of 'The Battle of Nasby', from the
Westminster Review, January 1855, anout 160 words and 13 corrections:

would seem to be intended for a description by one of
the roundheads of 200 yrs ago of the celebrated battle of Nasby,
where the English Commonwealth troops, at first came near being
destroyed by the army of King Charles & his lords, but just at the
worst Oliver Cromwell, with a strong troop of cavalry, who had
made a forced march, burst in to their relief, & put the King to
flight--observe the irony, & the fanaticism--
Westminster Review Jan '55
It open as with one saluting the Cromwellian forces on their
return--
[over]12[?]8
This ballad is suppose to describe--about 200 years ago when the 
Puritan conxxxx/?/  q......ed with irony, the battle of Nasby 
where the Puritans, /?/ were attacked, /??/  by 
/In stanza 11, WW changes? Ho! to 'Now", transposes stanza 12 and 
13, and makes these changes in stanza 13: line 1, begin line with 
'Hah!', 'their' for 'your''; line 2, 'the' for 'your'; line 3 'Their' 
for 'Your' , 'their' for 'your' twice; line 4, : 'Their' for 'Your" 
and 'their' for 'your' three times; cancels last two stanzas. /would seem to be a descrip
by one of the round heads of 200 years ago of the celebrated battle
of Naseby, where the English commonwealth
troops, at first came near being destroyed by the army of
King Charles & his lords, but just at the worst
Oliver Cromwell with a strong troop of cavalry who had
made a forced march burst in to their relief & put the
King to flight - observe the irony & the fanaticism -

Westminster to Review
Jan.
the People.

A still
finer war ballad than "Bonnie Dundee," and
much less known, is "The Battle of Naseby,"
by Thomas Babington Macaulay.  It forms
one of the projected series of "Songs of the
Civil Wars" published in Mr. "Knights
Magazine' many years ago, and is supposed
to be hymned by "Obadiah Bind-your-kings-
in chain and your nobles in links of iron, Serjeant
in Ireton's regiment."  Why it is not
thought worthy to be bound up with "The 
Armada," and "Ivry," and the "Lays" themselves, 
our readers will marvel with ourselves.
[*???*]
[*???*]

The Battle of Naseby.
Oh, wherefore come ye forth in triumph from the 
North, 
With your hands and your feet and your raiment 
all red?
And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous 
shout? 
And whence be the grapes of the winepress 
which ye tread?

Oh, evil was the root and bitter was the fruit,
And crimson was the juice of the vintage that 
we trod:
For we trampled on the throng of the haughty 
and the strong, 
Who sate in the high place and slew in the saints 
of God.

It was about the noon of a glorious day in June 
That 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 a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and 
his sword, 
The General rode along us to form us for the 
fight,
When a murmuring sound broke out, and swell'd 
into a shout, 
Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's 
right. 

And hark! like the roar of the billows on the 
shore,
The cry of battle rises along their charging 
line,
For God! for the cause! for the Church! for the 
laws! 
For Charles, King of England, and Rupert of  
the Rhine!

The furious German comes with his clarions and 
his drums, 
His bravoes of Alsatia and pages of Whitehall;
They are bursting on our flanks! grasp your 
pikes! close your ranks!  
For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to 
fall. 

They are here! they rush on! we are broken! 
we are gone!  
Our left is borne before them like stubble on the 
blast;
Oh Lord put forth thy might! O Lord defend the 
right!  
Stand back to back in God's name, and fight it 
to the last.

Stout Skippon hath a wound - the centre hath 
given ground--
Hark! hark! what means the trampling of 
horsemen on our rear?  
Whose banner do I see, boys? 'tis he, thank God 
'tis he, boys!  
Bear up another moment. Brave Oliver is 
here. 

Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a 
row, 
Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on 
the dykes. 
Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the 
accurst, 
And at a shock have scattered the Forest of his 
Pikes. 

Fast, fast the gallants ride in some safe nook to 
hide  
Their coward heads, predestined to rot on 
Temple Bar;
And He--he turns and flies! shame to those cruel 
eyes  
That bore to look on torture and fear to look 
on war.  

Ho! [*Now*] comrades, scour the plain, and ere ye strip
the slain, 
First give another stab to make your quest 
secure:
Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad 
pieces and lockets,  
The tokens of the wanton, and plunder of the 
poor.

[*Tr*]

Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and your 
hearts were gay and bold,
When you kissed your lily hands to your 
lemans to-day:
And to-morrow shall the fox from her chambers 
in the rocks,
Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the 
prey.
          
[*Hark!*] Where be [your][*their*]  tongues that late mock'd at
 heaven, and hell, and fate,
   And the fingers that once were busy with 
 [*the*] [your] blades;
[Your] perfumed satin clothes; [*their*] [your] catches and 
 [your] [*their*] oaths;
   [?][Your] stage-plays and [your] [*his*] sonnets: [your] [*their*] diamonds
  and your spades?

[Down, down, for ever down, with the mitre and
 the crown;
   With the Bleial of the Court, and Mammon 
  of the Pope;
There is woe in Oxford halls: there is wail in
  Durham's stalls;
   The Jesuit smites his bosom, the Bishop rends 
   his cope

And she of the Seven Hills shall mourn her 
children's ills,
And tremble when she thinks of the edge of
England's sword;
And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder when 
 they hear
What the hand of God hath wrought for the 
 houses and the word.]For one short hour is your time to live. 

Upon yon river three tenders float, 
The Priest's in one, if he is not shot-
We hold his house for our Lord the King; 
And; amen say I, may all traitors swing !

At Geneva Barrack that young man died, 
And at Passage they have his body laid. 
Good people, who live in peace and joy, 
Breathe a prayer and a tear for a Croppy Boy.
 
SOGGARTH AROON. 
Am I the slave they say 
Soggarth aroon? 
Since you did show the way, 
Soggarth aroon. 
Their slave no more to be, 
While they would work with me 
Ould Ireland's slavery, 
Soggarth aroon?

Why not her poorest man, 
Soggarth aroon, 
Try and do all he can 
Soggarth aroon, 
Her commands to fulfil 
Of his own heart and will, 
Side by side with you still, 
Soggarth aroon? 

Loyal and brave to you, 
Soggarth aroon.
Yet be no slave to you, 
Soggarth aroon. 
Nor out of fear to you, 
Stand up so near to you- 
Och! out of fear to you, 
Soggarth aroon?

Who in the winter night, 
Soggarth aroon,
 
time, treating the Papists and chieny the 
Irish in a very ludicrous manner, which had 
a burden said to be Irish words, "Lero, Lero, 
Lilli burlero, " that made an impression on 
the army that cannot be imagined by them 
that saw it not.  The whole forces, and at 
last the people, both in city and country, 
were singing it perpetually.  And perhaps
never had so slight a thing so great an effect."
It was written by Lord Wharton on the occasion
of Talbot, Earl of Tyrconnel, being made
Lieutenant of Ireland, and it certainly conduced 
to the revolution of 1688. The words 
are almost sheer nonsense and the last two 
verses will amply suffice:-

Dare was an old prophecy found in a bog, 
Lili burlero, bullen-a-la. 
Ireland shall be ruled by an ass and a dog, 
Lili burlero, bullen-a-la. 
And now dis prophecy is come to pass, 
Lili burlero, bullen-a-la.
For Talbot's de dog, and Ja-----s is de ass, 
Lili burlero, bullen-a-la. 

The ' celebrated party song of " Boyne Water, " 
to this day this great Orange ditty across
the Channel, is but little indebted to poetry for 
its success, but ballads of that nature in Ireland 
are for the most part very eloquent and 
fiery; it seems as if that country's wrongs 
were really too great to be stated soberly, and 
were most fitly and naturally poured forth 
in song. " The Croppy Boy," a ballad of 
' 98, by Carroll Malone, has even now, in that 
unhappy isle, a fatal attraction and dread significance. 
" Soggarth aroon, " ( Priest dear) 
by John Banim, the poet, par excellence, of 
the Irish peasantry, although also of a party 
character, deserves the place it holds in the 
great warm hearts of his countrymen. 

THE CROPPY BOY. 
" Good men and true in his house who dwell, 
To a stranger bouchal, I pray you tell
Is the Priest at home? or may he be seen?
I would speak a word with Father Green. "

" The Priest's at home, boy, and may be seen; 
' Tis easy speaking with Father Green;