CIVIL WAR.

Woe, woe was ours. Chief drew his sword on chief:

Religion with her relique and her brand,

Made strife between our bosom-bones, and grief

And lawless joy abounded in the land;

Our glass of glory sank nigh its last sand;

Rank with its treason, priesthood with its craft,

Turned Scotland's war-lance to a willow-wand.

But war arose in Scotland—civil war;

Serf warred with chief, and father warred with son,

The church too warred with all: her evil star

That rules o'er sinking realms shone like the sun—

Her lights waxed dim and died out one by one—

Woe o'er the land hung like a funeral pall:

The sword the bold could brave, the coward shun,

But famine followed fast and fell on all—

Pale lips cried oft for food which came not at their call.