The Monks of Bangor's March

Sir Walter Scott

WHEN the heathen trumpet’s clang

Round beleaguered Chester rang,

Veiled nun and friar gray

Marched from Bangor’s fair Abbaye;

High their holy anthem sounds,

Cestria’s vale the hymn rebounds,

Floating down the sylvan 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

Doomed to feel unhallowed 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,

Spurned by steeds with bloody mane,

Slaughtered 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,

        Sing, O miserere, Domine!

 

Bangor! o’er the murder wail!

Long thy ruins told the tale,

Shattered towers and broken arch

Long recalled the woful march:

On thy shrine no tapers burn,

Never shall thy priests return;

The pilgrim sighs and sings for thee,

                O miserere, Domine!