Ill fared it then with Roderick Dhu, That on the field his targe he threw, Whose brazen studs and tough bull-hide Had death so often dashed aside;For, trained abroad his arms to wield Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield.

He practised every pass and ward, To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard;While less expert, though stronger far, The Gael maintained unequal war.

Three times in closing strife they stood And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood;No stinted draught, no scanty tide, The gushing flood the tartars dyed.

Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain, And showered his blows like wintry rain;And, as firm rock or castle-roof Against the winter shower is proof, The foe, invulnerable still, Foiled his wild rage by steady skill;Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand Forced Roderick's weapon from his hand, And backward borne upon the lea, Brought the proud Chieftain to his knee.