The Book of Scottish Song/A steed, a steed

A steed, a steed.

[William Motherwell.]

A Steed! a steed of matchless speede!
⁠A sword of metal keene!
Al else to noble heartes is drosse—
⁠Al else on earth is meane.
The neighynge of the war-horse prowde,
⁠The rowleinge of the drum,
The clangour of the trumpet lowde—
⁠Be soundes from heaven that come.
And, oh! the thundering presse of knightes,
⁠Whenas their war-cryes swelle,
May tole from heaven an angel bright,
⁠And rowse a fiend from hell.

Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all,
⁠And don your helmes amaine;
Deathe's couriers, fame and honour, call
⁠Us to the fielde againe.
No shrewish tears shall fill our eye
⁠When the sworde-hilt's in our hand;
Hearte-whole we'll parte, and no whit sighe
⁠For the fayrest of the land.
Let piping swaine, and craven wight,
⁠Thus weepe and puling crye;
Our buisnesse is like men to fighte,
⁠And like to heroes, die!

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