The castle towers of Bareacres are fair upon the lea, Where the cliffs of bonny Diddlesex rise up from out the sea: I stood upon the donjon keep and view'd the country o'er, I saw the lands of Bareacres for fifty miles or more.
I stood upon the donjon keep — it is a sacred place,— Where floated for eight hundred years the banner of my race; Argent, a dexter sinople, and gules an azure field: There ne'er was nobler cognizance on knightly warrior's shield.
The first time England saw the shield‘ twas round a Norman neck, On board a ship from Valery, King William was on deck. A Norman lance the colors wore, in Hastings’ fatal fray — St. Willibald for Bareacres!‘ twas double gules that day!
O Heaven and sweet St. Willibald! in many a battle since A loyal-hearted Bareacres has ridden by his Prince! At Acre with Plantagenet, with Edward at Poictiers, The pennon of the Bareacres was foremost on the spears!
‘ Twas pleasant in the battle-shock to hear our war-cry ringing: Oh grant me, sweet St. Willibald, to listen to such singing! Three hundred steel-clad gentlemen, we drove the foe before us, And thirty score of British bows kept twanging to the chorus!
O knights, my noble ancestors! and shall I never hear St. Willibald for Bareacres through battle ringing clear? I'd cut me off this strong right hand a single hour to ride, And strike a blow for Bareacres, my fathers, at your side!
Dash down, dash down, yon Mandolin, beloved sister mine! Those blushing lips may never sing the glories of our line: Our ancient castles echo to the clumsy feet of churls, The spinning-jenny houses in the mansion of our Earls.
Sing not, sing not, my Angeline! in days so base and vile, ‘ Twere sinful to be happy,‘ twere sacrilege to smile. I'll hie me to my lonely hall, and by its cheerless hob I'll muse on other days, and wish — and wish I were — A SNOB.
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