With vestiges of War, the Shepherd Boy

Climbs the green hillock to survey his flock;

Then sweetly sleeps upon his favourite hill,

Not conscious that his bed's a Warrior's Tomb.

  The ancient Mansions, deeply moated round,

Where, in the iron Age of Chivalry,

Redoubted Barons wag'd their little Wars;

The strong Entrenchments and enormous Mounds,

Rais'd to oppose the fierce, perfidious Danes;

And still more ancient traces that remain

Of Dykes and Camps, from the far distant date

When minstrel Druids wak'd the soul of War,

And rous'd to arms old Albion's hardy sons,

To stem the tide of Roman Tyranny: ...

War's footsteps, thus imprinted on the ground,

Shew that in Britain he, from age to age,

Has rear'd his horrid head, and raging reign'd.

  Long on the margins of the silver Tweed

Opposing Ensigns wav'd; War's clarion

Dreadfully echo'd down the winding stream,

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