Robert Stephen Hawker

Thus said the rushing raven, Unto his hungry mate: ‘Ho! gossip! for Bude Haven: There be corpses six or eight. Cawk! cawk! the crew and skipper Are wallowing in the sea:

They rear’d their lodges in the wilderness, Or built them cells beside the shadowy sea, And there they dwelt with angels, like a dream! So they unroll’d the Volume of the Book And fill’d the fields of the Evangelist With thoughts as sweet …

We see them not—we cannot hear The music of their wing— Yet know we that they sojourn near, The Angels of the spring!They glide along this lovely ground When the first violet grows; Their graceful hands have just unbound

Waes-hael for knight and dame! O merry be their dole! Drink-hael! in Jesu’s name We fill the tawny bowl; But cover down the curving crest, Mould of the Orient Lady’s breast.

A good sword and a trusty hand! A merry heart and true! King James’s men shall understand What Cornish lads can do.And have they fix’d the where and when? And shall Trelawny die? Here’s twenty thousand Cornish men