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