On walls no more our rifles hang;
The rocks are lined with marksmen gray;
The water-sprite lifts up its head,
And waits impatiently its prey.
The first shot pierced Herr Sinclair's breast,—
He groaned, and forth his spirit gave;
And as he fell, each Scot cried out,
"O God, in this our peril save!"
"On, peasants! on, Norwegian men!
Let each foe find a Sinclair's grave!"