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In the early dawn the Bishops' men Shivered in the damp But the shiver came not from the cold And spread throughout the camp The trembling horses sensed the fear Of silent thoughtful men Who prayed that wives and families Might see them once again. The bishops sent a dawn patrol To investigate the weight Of forces at the King's command Ensconced behind the gate The ground mist hid the patrol's approach As they drew close enough to show The sentries on the battlements And an archer drew his bow. From the topmost tower a sentry fell As an arrow pierced his skull And his headlong flight into the moat Seemed that of a gull The patrol reported little There was nothing much to see But the strong and silent castle A symbol of the free. The King's men took communion As the first rays of the sun Lit up the castle's gloomy walls The fatal day begun From the castle green the rooks took flight To the high trees in the east To their carrion minds the battlefield Set a table for a feast. A tide of black, the Bishops' men, Equality their right Swarmed like ants across the hill Their aim at last in sight The King's men dressed in purest white Were driven back by force And the fighting grew more violent As the battle took its course. The Bishops gave the order No mercy to be shown The sacrifice will reap rewards When the King is overthrown The sight of children lying dead Made hardened soldiers weep The outer walls began to fall They moved towards the keep. The rooks surveyed the battlefield Their hungry beady eyes Revelled in the sight of death Showing no surprise The pressure mounted steadily As the Bishops neared the gate And the desperate King called to his knights "It's your lives or the State". When the anxious King began to fail As many thought he might The Queen ran screaming round the walls And urged the men to fight The Bishops' men were tiring As the afternoon drew late And the King's men lowered the drawbridge And poured out through the gate. They fought their way across the bridge The men like falling leaves Or ears of corn that fall in swathes The vicious sickle cleaves The tide receded up the hill The waste of reclaimed land Once decaying swamp became A shore of pure white sand. A blinded priest was seen to bless Both dying and the dead As he stumbled around the battlefield His cassock running red If uniform were black or white His eyes could never see And death made no distinction Whatever man he be. As darkness fell both camps withdrew Their soldiers slain like cattle Leaving the rooks to feast alone The victors of the battle At evensong both camps reviewed Their sad depleted ranks As survivors of the battle Gave God their grateful thanks. |
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