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Poem by Walter Scott
The Norman Horse-Shoe
I. Red glows the forge in Striguil's bounds, And hammers din, and anvil sounds, And armourers, with iron toil, Barb many a steed for battle's broil, Foul fall the hand which bends the steel Around the courser's thundering heel, That e'er shall dint a sable wound On fair Glamorgan's velvet ground! II. From Chepstow's towers, ere dawn of morn, Was heard afar the bugle-horn; And forth, in banded pomp and pride, Stout Clare and fiery Neville ride, They swore, their banners broad should gleam, In crimson light, on Rymny's stream; They vowed, Caerphili's sod should feel The Norman charger's spurning heel. III. And sooth they swore - the sun arose, And Rymny's wave with crimson glows; For Clare's red banner, floating wide, Roll'd down the stream to Severn's tide! And sooth they vow'd - the trampled green Show'd where hot Neville's charge had been: In every sable hoof-tramp stood A Norman horseman's curdling blood! IV. Old Chepstow's brides may curse the toil, That arm'd stout Clare for Cambrian broil; Their orphans long the art may rue, For Neville's war-horse forged the shoe. No more the stamp of armed steed Shall dint Glamorgan's velvet mead; Nor trace be there, in early spring, Save of the Fairies' emerald ring.
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