March Of The Monks Of Bangor

When the heathen trumpet's clang     Round beleaguer'd Chester rang,     Veiled nun and friar grey     March'd from Bangor's fair Abbaye;     High their holy anthem sounds,     Cestria's vale the hymn rebounds,     Floating down the silvan Dee,     O miserere, Domine!     On the long procession goes,     Glory round their crosses glows,     And the Virgin-mother mild     In their peaceful banner smiled;     Who could think such saintly band     Doom'd to feel unhallow'd hand?     Such was the Divine decree,     O miserere, Domine!     Bands that masses only sung,     Hands that censers only swung,     Met the northern bow and bill,     Heard the war-cry wild and shrill:     Woe to Brockmael's feeble hand     Woe to Olfrid's bloody brand,     Woe to Saxon cruelty,     O miserere, Domine!     Weltering amid warriors slain,     Spurn'd by steeds with bloody mane,     Slaughter'd down by heathen blade,     Bangor's peaceful monks are laid:     Word of parting rest unspoke,     Mass unsung, and bread unbroke;     For their souls for charity,     O miserere, Domine!     Bangor! o'er the murder wail!     Long thy ruins told the tale,     Shatter'd towers and broken arch     Long recall'd the woeful march:     On thy shrine no tapers burn,     Never shall thy priests return;     The pilgrim sighs and sings for thee,     O miserere, Domine!