written verses and put them into the mouth of the doughty
Smite-and-spare-not, sitting his horse, stark and strong, at the head of
his men on Naseby Field, and gazing with grim, grey eyes on the opening
movements of the fight. And, nothing loth, I trolled them out roundly
across the meadows, till the peewits screamed and a distant dog began to
bay:

"Princelet and king, and mitre and ring,
Earl and baron and squire,
Oliver worries 'em, harries and flurries 'em,
With siege and slaughter and fire.
With the arm of the Flesh and the sword of the Spirit,
Push of pike and the Word,
Smiting and praying, and praising and slaying,
Oliver fights for the Lord.
With the sword He brought the work is wrought,
We finish here to-day.
When yon rags and remnants of Babylon
Are blown and battered away.

Hurrah for the groans of 'em, soon shall the bones of 'em,
_Steady!_ Hell-rakers at large,
Rot under the sod. _Pass the word: 'God_
_Is our strength?'_ There goes Oliver. _Charge!_"

When I had done she applauded so that my face burned until I was
discommoded and fell into her trap.

"I wish you'd written them, Master Wheatman."