To muster around the tall beacon’s blaze.
And now, as afar o’er the plains they look,
Where glistens with flame each winding brook,
Red ruin enwraps both tower and town,
And wild Norsemen’s shouts reach the beacon Doun;
And by shrieks of woe their hearts are wrung,
Till each Scottish breast to revenge is strung.
Whose steed-tramp resounds down the woody glen?
Who bears, as he rides, his proud crest so high,
His brow circled with gems, as chief of men,