This poem; (the first of four, set during the English Civil War) concerns an incident at the Battle of Worcester, where a certain young Royalist Captain of Horse, John Fitzwarren; with two of his Troopers, held off the Parliamentarian Essex Militia for some two hours at one of the City gates. Eventually overwhelmed, all three were put to the sword. Perhaps, these were his thoughts, prior to joining his Regiment.

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Spring creeps softly through the Shires in this year of our Lord, 1651.
Will peace ever reign in this blighted land? T'is nine long years since War began.
A year ago, they killed a King, and brother still fights brother;
Cromwell still sequesters all; and plots, they yet uncover.
The Drums of War will sound again this year,
of that, I have no doubt;


so, roll me in your arms, my love, and blow the candle out.


Before this ranting Yorkshire Squire usurped a Crown, and sparked a War,
we rode out in the dewy fields and laughed, and loved; alas, no more.
The only riders - troops of horse, with pistols cocked, and flashing blade,
with caps of iron, and coats of Buff; compatriots are hanged, and slayed,
Still, none in Whitehall cry "Enough of this!"
Nor will; I have no doubt;


so, roll me in your arms, my love, and blow the candle out.


Last Autumn, when the Flag was raised far north in Dunbar town,
when Leslie fought with Monckton; the slaughter was profound.
Three thousand dead, ten thousand trapped; many of those to be
as Traitors to the Commonwealth, swung on Tyburn tree.
Good King Charles is marching south, but Cromwell follows close,
with Hamilton and Lambert to engage the Royal Host
at Worcester, where we all may die;
of that, I have no doubt;


so, roll me in your arms, my love, and blow the candle out.


I have fought at Edgehill, and at Chalgrove, in the Vale
of Whitehorse; and at Lansdown, where our courage did not fail.
And I have fought at Cheriton; but, yet, on Naseby field,
struck by a Roundhead musket ball; my stand, I had to yield.
Yet, you, my love, have stood with me, have stitched my wounds,
have held me close
through bitter nights of pain, and fear; to leave again would hurt the most.
I must gird on my sword again;
t'is soon; I have no doubt;


so, roll me in your arms, my love, and blow the candle out.