Sir John Hanmer

Pescara

Haste! mother, haste! smoke blackens the blue sky, Pescara comes, oh, whither shall we fly? I see his band beyond those olive trees, I hear his trumpets braying in the breeze; There are none here beside but you and I— Haste! mother, haste! oh, whither shall we fly! Fear not, my daughter, 'tis our land to save From foreign tyrants, that his banners wave; To chase the French, that o'er our counties ride, And sweep their lilies from our river's side: They'll harm you not, and once you lov'd a lance, And the gay greeting of a soldier's glance. Yes, but that lance ne'er rode in Spanish ranks, 'Tis all alike, while o'er our valley pranks Frenchman or Spaniard, and our native lords Whet for a stranger's vassalage their swords. I'll to the mountain, his guerilla's there, Let these avengers follow, if they dare.