Come， 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 humblèd！'
     Gordred the giant rous'd himself
     From sleeping in his cave；
     He shook the hills， and in the clouds
     The troubl'd banners wave.
     Beneath them roll'd， like tempests black，
     The num'rous sons of blood；
     Like lions' whelps， roaring abroad，
     Seeking their nightly food.
     Down Bleron's hills they dreadful rush，
     Their cry ascends the clouds；
     The trampling horse and clanging arms
     Like rushing mighty floods！
     Their wives and children， weeping loud，
     Follow in wild array，
     Howling like ghosts， furious as wolves
     In the bleak wintry day.
     `Pull down the tyrant to the dust，
     Let Gwin be humblèd，'
     They cry， `and let ten thousand lives
     Pay for the tyrant's head.'
     From tow'r to tow'r the watchmen cry，
     `O Gwin， the son of Nore，
     Arouse thyself！ the nations， black
     Like clouds， come rolling o'er！'
     Gwin rear'd his shield， his palace shakes，
     His chiefs come rushing round；
     Each， like an awful thunder cloud，
     With voice of solemn sound：
     Like rearèd stones around a grave
     They stand around the King；
     Then suddenly each seiz'd his spear，
     And clashing steel does ring.
     The husbandman does leave his plough
     To wade thro' fields of gore；
     The merchant binds his brows in steel，
     And leaves the trading shore；
     The shepherd leaves his mellow pipe，
     And sounds the trumpet shrill；
     The workman throws his hammer down
     To heave the bloody bill.
     Like the tall ghost of Barraton
     Who sports in stormy sky，
     Gwin leads his host， as black as night
     When pestilence does fly，
     With horses and with chariots——
     And all his spearmen bold
     March to the sound of mournful song，
     Like clouds around him roll'd.
     Gwin lifts his hand——the nations halt；
     `Prepare for war！' he cries——
     Gordred appears！——his frowning brow
     Troubles our northern skies.
     The armies stand， like balances
     Held in th' Almighty's hand；——
     `Gwin， thou hast fill'd thy measure up：
     Thou'rt swept from out the land.'
     And now the raging armies rush'd
     Like warring mighty seas；
     The heav'ns are shook with roaring war，
     The dust ascends the skies！
     Earth smokes with blood， and groans and shakes
     To drink her children's gore，
     A sea of blood； nor can the eye
     See to the trembling shore！