III

The cock crows.—Is he dreaming? 'Tis dark still.

He crows again and now, from farm to farm,

His fellows echo far his dazed alarm

And flap of wings on fences. He is shrill

Because it is not dawn above the hill,

That wakes him, but the English, as they arm,

And murder sleep, that has no dream of harm,

In couch and crib,—to further England's will.

O Caledonia! with such lamp in hand

As Glencoe's horror, thou hast England true.

Why let Froude fiction haze thy vivid view?

Put not thy light out for sound sleep, but stand

And answer, when the mother, whom thou drew

Thy soul from, cries "Glencoe"! when Black and Taned.