With the yellow-haired chiefs of his native land;
For his lance was not shivered on helmet or shield,
And the sword that seemed fit for archangel to wield,
Was light in his terrible hand.
But bleeding and bound though “the Wallace wight,”
For his much-loved country die,
The bugle ne’er sung to a braver knight
Than Wallace of Elderslie.
But the day of his glory shall never depart,
His head unentombed shall with glory be palmed,