These drew not for their fields the sword, Like tenants of a feudal lord, Nor owned the patriarchal claim Of Chieftain in their leader's name;Adventurers they, from far who roved, To live by battle which they loved.
There the Italian's clouded face, The swarthy Spaniard's there you trace;The mountain-loving Switzer there More freely breathed in mountain-air;The Fleming there despised the soil That paid so ill the labourer's toil;Their rolls showed French and German name;
And merry England's exiles came, To share, with ill-concealed disdain, Of Scotland's pay the scanty gain.
All brave in arms, well trained to wield The heavy halberd, brand, and shield;In camps licentious, wild, and bold;
In pillage fierce and uncontrolled;
And now, by holytide and feast, From rules of discipline released.
