The child they killed at mother's breast,
Nor cared how sweet soe'er its smile;
Of widows' tears they made a jest:
Sorrow's loud cry arose the while.
Throughout the land the wail resounds;
The heaven blazed; the cross of fire
Sped its swift course; and Sinclair soon
Shall feel the vengeful dalesman's ire.
The soldiers of the king are gone;
We must ourselves the land defend.