—As beneath Ben Aille’s crest
The west wind weaves its roof of gray,
And all the glory of the day
Blooms off from loch and copse and green hill-breast;
So, when that craven council spoke retreat,
The fateful shameful word
They heard,—and scarcely heard!
At Scotland’s name how should the blood refuse to beat?
13
—O soul-piercing stroke of shame!
O last, last, chance,—and wasted so!
Work wanting but the final blow,—
And, then, the hopeless hope, the crownless name,
The heart’s desire defeated!—What boots now
That ice-brook-temper’d will,
Indomitable still
As on through snow and storm their path the dalesmen plough?
14
—Yet again the tartans hail
One smile of Scotland’s ancient face;
One favour waits the faithful race,—
One triumph more at Falkirk crowns the Gael!
And O! what drop of Scottish blood that runs
Could aught, save do or die,
And Bannockburn so nigh?
What cause to higher height could animate her sons?
15
Up the gorse-embattled brae,
With equal eager feet they dash,
And on the moorland summit clash,
Friend mix’d with foe in stormy disarray:
Once more the Northern charge asserts its right,
As with the driving rain
They drive them down the plain:
That star alone before Drummossie gilds the night.
16
—Ah! No more!—let others tell
The agony of the mortal moor;
Death’s silent sheepfold dotted o’er
With Scotland’s best, sleet-shrouded as they fell!
There on the hearts, once mine, the snow-wreaths drift;
Night’s winter dews at will
In bitter tears distil,
And o’er the field the stars their squadrons coldly shift.