Skittish

‘Behind them, screen’d by sheltering wood,
The gallant Keith, Lord Marshal, stood;
His men-at-arms bear mace and lance,
And plumes that wave and helms that glance.

* * * * *

‘Then "Mount, ye gallants free!"
He cried; and vaulting from the ground
His saddle every horseman found.
On high their glittering crests they toss,
As springs the wild-fire from the moss;
The shield hangs down on every breast,
Each ready lance is in the rest

* * * * *

Then spurs were dash’d in chargers’ flanks,
They rushed among the archer ranks;
No spears were there the shock to let,
No stakes to turn the charge were set,
And how shall yeoman’s armour slight
Stand the long lance and mace of might?
Or what may their short swords avail
‘Gainst barbed horse and shirt of mail?
Amid their ranks the chargers sprung,
High o’er their heads the weapons swung,
And shriek, and groan, and vengeful shout
Give note of triumph and of rout