Sonnet 13 the Battle of Marston Moor
Five Thousand Men! Blood flowing in the creek,
The deadly sweep and ‘whisst!’ of footman’s pike,
The cavalry broke through where lines were weak!
The smell of grass and loam, a caltrop’s* spike
That pushed right through my boot, and left me lame…
I’m on my own, now, I cannot keep up!
I’ve not a shilling for the boys to claim,
Should I on Heav’n’s bright porch today end up!
There, buy an ale, for friends, who’ll stop, and smile,
For all my friends are dead! (And, soon, I’ll be!)
Next rush of Horse, I’ll fight atop a stile** –
My count of Roundheads*** will be forty-three!
OH, GOD!!! The bowmen now have found their mark!
It’s thus! That all good men go down to dark…
* caltrop – a four-pointed spike of iron, laid before battles, to lame horses and men
** stile – an arrangement of steps that allows people, but not animals, to climb over a fence
*** Roundheads - a nickname for the Parliamentarian Rebels
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