Tira, tirala—­trumpet and drum—­
     Rising bright o’er the height of the mountain they come! 
     German, and Hun, and the Islandrie,
     Who routed the Frenchman at famed Cressie,
     When the rose changed its hue with the fleur-de-lis;
     With the Roman, and Lombard, and Piedmontese,
     And the dark-haired son of the southern seas. 
     Tira, tirala—­more near and near
     Down the steep—­see them sweep;—­rank by rank they appear! 
     With the Cloud of the Crowd hanging dark at their rear—­
     Serried, and steadied, and orderlie,
     Like the course—­like the force—­of a marching sea! 
     Open your gates, and out with your gold,
     For the blood must be spilt, or the ransom be told! 
     Woe, Burghers, woe!  Behold them led
     By the stoutest arm and the wisest head,
     With the snow-white cross on the cloth of red;—­
     With the eagle eye, and the lion port,
     His barb for a throne, and his camp for a court: 
     Sovereign and scourge of the land is he—­
     The kingly Knight of the Companie! 
     Hurrah—­hurrah—­hurrah! 
     Hurrah for the army—­hurrah for its lord—­
     Hurrah for the gold that is got by the sword—­
     Hurrah—­hurrah—­hurrah! 
     For the Lances of the Free!

Shouted by the full chorus of those desperate boon-companions, and caught up and re-echoed from side to side, near and far, as the familiar and well-known words of the burthen reached the ears of more distant groups or stragglers, the effect of this fierce and licentious minstrelsy was indescribable.  It was impossible not to feel the zest which that daring life imparted to its daring followers, and even the gallant and stately Knight who listened to it, reproved himself for an involuntary thrill of sympathy and pleasure.

He turned with some impatience and irritation to his companion, who had taken a part in the chorus, and said, “Sir, to the ears of an Italian noble, conscious of the miseries of his country, this ditty is not welcome.  I pray you, let us proceed.”

“I humbly crave your pardon, Signor,” said the Free Companion; “but really so attractive is the life led by Free Lances, under Fra Moreale, that sometimes we forget the—­; but pardon me—­we will on.”

A few moments more, and bounding over a narrow circumvallation, the party found themselves in a quarter, animated indeed, but of a wholly different character of animation.  Long lines of armed men were drawn up on either side of a path, conducting to a large marquee, placed upon a little hillock, surmounted by a blue flag, and up this path armed soldiers were passing to and fro with great order, but with a pleased and complacent expression upon their swarthy features.  Some that repaired to the marquee were bearing packets and bales upon their shoulders—­those that returned seemed to have got rid of their burthens, but every now and then, impatiently opening their hands, appeared counting and recounting to themselves the coins contained therein.