Far o'er the billows they have swept to Caledonia's strand;
They carve the record of their deeds with battle-axe and brand;
Their march each day is tracked with flame, their path with carnage strewn,
For Pity is an angel-guest their hearts have never known.
And now the caitiffs steal by night to storm the Fort of Slaines—
They reck not of the fiery blood that leaps in Scottish veins!
Onward they creep with noiseless tread—their treacherous feet are bare,
Lest the harsh clang of iron heels their slumbering prey should scare.
"Yon moat," they vow, "shall soon be crossed, yon rampart soon be scaled,
And all who hunger for the spoil with spoil shall be regaled.