Press on, press on, and high in air the Raven Standard wave;
Those drowsy Scots this night shall end their sleep within the grave!"
Silent as shadows, on they glide; the gloomy fosse is nigh—
"Glory to Odin, Victory's Lord! its shelving depths are dry.
Speed, warriors, speed!"—but, hark! a shriek of agonizing pain
Bursts from a hundred Danish throats—again it rings, again!
Rank weeds had overgrown the moat, now drained by summer's heat,
And bristling crops of thistles pierced the raiders' naked feet!
That cry, like wail of pibroch, stirred the sentry's kindling soul,
And, shouting "Arms! to arms!" he sped the Castle bell to toll.