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Walter Scott - March Of The Monks Of Bangor
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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!
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