Scenes and legends of the north of Scotland

by Hugh Miller

On crested helm relentless laid;

Yells, groans, sharp sounds of smitten mail,

And war-cries load the midnight gale;

O hark! like Heaven’s own thunder high,

Swells o’er the rest one ceaseless cry,

Racking the dull cold ear of night,

“The Wallace wight!—the Wallace wight!”

Yes, gleams the sword of Wallace there,

Unused his country’s foes to spare;

Roars the red camp like funeral pyre,