CANTO V.
117
Young knights and squires, a lighter train,
Practised their chargers on the plain,
30By aid of leg, of hand, and rein,
Each warlike feat to show,
To pass, to wheel, the croupe to gain,
And high curvett, that not in vain
The sword sway might descend amain
35 On foeman's casque below.
He saw the hardy burghers there
March arm'd, on foot, with faces bare,
For vizor they wore none,
Nor waving plume, nor crest of knight;
40But burnish'd were their corslets bright,
Their brigantines, and gorgets light,
Like very silver shone.
Long pikes they had for standing fight,
Two-handed swords they wore,
45And many wielded mace of weight,
And bucklers bright they bore.
Practised their chargers on the plain,
30By aid of leg, of hand, and rein,
Each warlike feat to show,
To pass, to wheel, the croupe to gain,
And high curvett, that not in vain
The sword sway might descend amain
35 On foeman's casque below.
He saw the hardy burghers there
March arm'd, on foot, with faces bare,
For vizor they wore none,
Nor waving plume, nor crest of knight;
40But burnish'd were their corslets bright,
Their brigantines, and gorgets light,
Like very silver shone.
Long pikes they had for standing fight,
Two-handed swords they wore,
45And many wielded mace of weight,
And bucklers bright they bore.
III.
On foot the yeoman too, but dress'd
In his steel-jack, a swarthy vest,
With iron quilted well;
50Each at his back (a slender store)
His forty days' provision bore,
As feudal statutes tell.
His arms were halbert, axe, or spear,
A crossbow there, a hagbut here,
55 A dagger-knife, and brand.
Sober he seem'd, and sad of cheer,
As loath to leave his cottage dear,
And march to foreign strand;
Or musing, who would guide his steer,
60 To till the fallow land.
Yet deem not in his thoughtful eye
Did aught of dastard terror lie;
On foot the yeoman too, but dress'd
In his steel-jack, a swarthy vest,
With iron quilted well;
50Each at his back (a slender store)
His forty days' provision bore,
As feudal statutes tell.
His arms were halbert, axe, or spear,
A crossbow there, a hagbut here,
55 A dagger-knife, and brand.
Sober he seem'd, and sad of cheer,
As loath to leave his cottage dear,
And march to foreign strand;
Or musing, who would guide his steer,
60 To till the fallow land.
Yet deem not in his thoughtful eye
Did aught of dastard terror lie;