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To Durham first their course they bear;
And in Saint Cuthbert's ancient seat
Sang Mass,—and tore the book of Prayer,—
And trod the Bible beneath their feet.
Thence marching southward smooth and free,
“They mustered their Host at Wetherby,
Full sixteen thousand fair to see;”
The choicest Warriors of the North!
But none for undisputed worth
Like those eight Sons; who in a ring,
Each with a lance—erect and tall,
A falchion, and a buckler small,
Stood by their Sire, on Clifford-moor,
In youthful beauty flourishing,
To guard the Standard which he bore.
—With feet that firmly pressed the ground
They stood, and girt their Father round;
Such was his choice,—no Steed will he
Henceforth bestride ;—triumphantly
