Battle-Cry

Hear the full-throated battle-drum!
Hear the trumpet as the warriors come
Out from between the trees at the cry,
And down past the hut and past pig-sty.

This is the beginning of a royal
Struggle between those still loyal,
And those who rise in rebellion strong,
Who would follow revolution's song.

But this time the rebels on their horses,
Plunging down the green hill's river-courses,
Will have something new with which to contend:
Loyalists who know how to defend.

Arrows sing out from rebel bows- and fall
As they hit in midair an unseen wall.
The village is strung about with a net
That in moments is stained scarlet

As the horses stumble on unseen spikes,
And crash into wire as sharp as pikes.
The wires rend the flesh hideously,
And a few rebels turn and flee.

The rest find the one and single gap,
That leads them straight into another trap.
The ground is poxed with rocky pits
That send the commander into fits.

The levers of the pits are, by weight,
Waiting to send the rebels to their fate.
At last the rebels must dismount,
And send their remaining horses out.

They cautiously advance, only to find
That the loyalists themselves do not mind
Fighting without horses, and on foot.
Their first attacks are handfuls of soot

Flung by children who roll aside,
And scramble from coughing rebels to hide.
Then comes out a steady stream of stones,
And deadlier missiles that shatter bones.

The rebels try to shoot once again,
But cannot find the women or men
Who now rise to their feet, grim and fair.
Crossbow-screams now rend the air.

The rebels move back into the clear,
Only to find the one way out of here
Pulled together by the running boys and girls.
Trapped swords out of their sheaths whirl.

Throughout this, the rending battle-cry
Has not from drum or horn ceased to fly.
The loyalists come on, a collective smile
On their faces that raises rebel bile.

The rebels have their steely pride,
And eyes the fire of revolt has dried.
They stand stubborn as the green laurel.
The loyalists have a huge supply of quarrels.

When it is over, they quietly clean up the blood,
Which lies on the ground in a flood
Upon which the crows and flies riot.
Once more, the loyalists' drum falls quiet.