XVIII.

Ill brooks the Frenchman withering laughter’s scorn: The Lusitan brigade they swift assail, Whose head by rapid fire is backward borne. With wondrous fleetness mounting from the vale, Rough Haya’s slopes the active foemen scale. But Inglis’ columns now the skirmish join, And soon Clausel is on the English trail. ’Mid Haya’s dells and lofty ridges shine For many an hour their fires along each broken line.