Sweeping past thy lowly bed,
With a mute, yet stately tread.
Shedding their pale armour’s light
Forth upon the breathless night,
Bending every warlike plume
In the prayer o’er saintly tomb.
Is the noble Douglas nigh,
Arm’d to follow thee, or die?
Now, true heart! as thou wert wont
Pass thou to the peril’s front!