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SKETCHES.
29
GWIN, KING OF NORWAY.
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 humbled.
Gordred the giant roused himself
From sleeping in his cave;
He shook the hills, and in the clouds
The troubled banners wave.
