Here, in 1298, was fought the battle of Falkirk, and Wallace was defeated. But not for long. Dead, he continued to speak.

Here, in 1313, was fought the battle of Bannockburn, forty thousand Scots against a hundred thousand English, Irish and Gascons. And The Bruce established Scotland Forever.

Here, in 1488, was fought the battle of Sauchieburn, the nobles against James III, and James flying from the field was treacherously slain.

Here, in 1715, was fought the battle of Sheriffmuir, when Mar and Albany with all their men marched up the hill of Muir and then marched down again.

Here, in 1745, Prince Charles experienced one of his great moments; how his great moments stand forth in the pathos, yes, and the bathos, of his swift career.

It is a tremendous panorama.

"Scots, wha ha'e wi' Wallace bled!
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led!"

I listened while the guide went through with the battle, which, of course, is the Battle of Bannockburn. How The Bruce disposed his army to meet the English host he knew was coming up from the south to relieve the castle garrison; how they appeared at St. Ninians suddenly, and the ever-seeing Bruce remarked to Moray, who had been placed in charge of that defense—"there falls a rose from your chaplet"—it is almost too romantic not to be apocryphal; and how Moray (who was the Randolph Moray who scaled the crags at Edinburgh that March night) countered the English dash for the castle and won out; how in the evening of the day as King Robert was inspecting his lines for the battle of the to-morrow, a to-morrow which had been scheduled the year before—"unless by St. John's day"; they had then a sense of leisure—the English knight Sir Henry de Bohun spurred upon him to single combat; it is worth while listening to the broad Scots of the guide as he repeats his well-conned, his well-worn, but his immortal story—

"High in his stirrups stood the King
And gave his battle-ax the swing,
Right on de Boune, the whiles he passed,
Fell that stern dint—the first, the last,
Such strength upon the blow was put,
The helmet crashed like hazel nut."

And all the battle the next day, until King Edward rides hot-trod to Berwick, leaving half his host dead upon this pleasant green field that lies so unremembering to the south of the castle. There is no more splendid moment in human history, unless all battles seem to you too barbaric to be splendid. But it made possible a nation—and, I take it, Scotland has been necessary to the world.