I tread, a rebel son no more.
Too blest, if yet my lot may be
In glory’s path to follow thee;
If tears, by late repentance pour’d,
May lave the blood-stains from my sword!”
Far other tears, O Wallace! rise
From the heart’s fountain to thine eyes;
Bright, holy, and uncheck’d they spring,
While thy voice falters, “Hail! my King!
Be every wrong, by memory traced,