Here you will find the Poem March Of The Monks Of Bangor of poet Sir Walter Scott
When the heathen trumpet's clang Round beleaguer'd Chester rang, Veiled nun and friar grey March'd from Bangor's fair Abbaye; High their holy anthem sounds, Cestria's vale the hymn rebounds, Floating down the silvan Dee, O miserere, Domine! On the long procession goes, Glory round their crosses glows, And the Virgin-mother mild In their peaceful banner smiled; Who could think such saintly band Doom'd to feel unhallow'd hand? Such was the Divine decree, O miserere, Domine! Bands that masses only sung, Hands that censers only swung, Met the northern bow and bill, Heard the war-cry wild and shrill: Woe to Brockmael's feeble hand Woe to Olfrid's bloody brand, Woe to Saxon cruelty, O miserere, Domine! Weltering amid warriors slain, Spurn'd by steeds with bloody mane, Slaughter'd down by heathen blade, Bangor's peaceful monks are laid: Word of parting rest unspoke, Mass unsung, and bread unbroke; For their souls for charity, O miserere, Domine! Bangor! o'er the murder wail! Long thy ruins told the tale, Shatter'd towers and broken arch Long recall'd the woeful march: On thy shrine no tapers burn, Never shall thy priests return; The pilgrim sighs and sings for thee, O miserere, Domine!
