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Chippenham, and the Neighbourhood, 



Lord Clarendon makes an ungenerous remark on the discomfiture 

 of Sir J. Long. His words are, "Sir Wm. Waller and Cromwell 

 making a cavalcade in Wiltshire, routed and took the whole regi- 

 ment of horse of Col. Long the High Sheriff of the county, by his 

 great defect of courage and conduct" As regards the charge of 

 unskilful generalship, Clarendon must have been in perfect ignor- 

 ance that Waller's force was ten times greater than that of Sir 

 James ; and as to the imputation on his personal bravery, all the 

 local history of the day proclaims, that from the first hour the 

 mortal strife began, to the last moment when it was of any avail 

 to lift his arm in defence of his fallen master, no cavalier in 

 England was more reckless of life, or lavish of blood, than Sir 

 James Long of Draycot. 



The Discomfiture of Sir James Long, Sheriff of Wilts, 

 March 12th, 1645. 



" When "Will Waller reared his standard 'gainst our King, the great, the good, 



And the men of Wiltshire nobly to their faith and honour stood — 



With the first the Lord of Draycot to the field his yeomen drew, 



Men of Langley, Sutton, Seagry, lusty troopers, bold and true ; 



Where the danger, toil or glory, in the foray or the fray, 



Foremost rode the Draycot troopers, Long of Draycot led the way ; 



And the name of Long of Draycot, in a thousand straits and fears, 



Stirred the hearts, as with a trumpet, of the Wiltshire Cavaliers. 



War is sin, and speechless sorrow — victory woe, and doubtful gain — 

 Tidings sore have come to Draycot, mournful rumours, tales of pain. 

 All the house is fear and trouble, every heart is faint and low — 

 In the library the Lady paceth sadly to and fro. 

 But as toward the Church she gazeth, sudden bursteth on her view 

 Will of Langley, riding madly up the echoing avenue. 



Worn, he seems, with toil and battle, smeared with sweat, and mire, and blood, 

 And his stallion snorts and plunges, reeking in a foamy flood. 



' Ah, my Lady ! ' cried the trooper, ' all is lost ! — this Wednesday mora 

 Waller met us — broke us — crushed us in dire rout and wreck forlorn. 

 Bleeding in the foeman's fetters lies thy honoured lord, and mine ; 

 And of our four hundred troopers there escaped but twenty-nine.' 

 4 Mercy, Jesu ! ' cried the Lady ; yet she curbed the absorbing care : 

 * Gro thou to thy meat and slumbers — I to watching, tears, and prayer.' 



In the library at Draycot, till the matin moon decayed, 

 Burnt a solitary taper, where the Lady wept and prayed ; 



