The German heart is stout and true, the German arm is strong;
The German foot goes seldom back where armed foemen throng.
But never bad they faced in field so stern a charge before, 95
And never had they felt the sweep of Scotland's broad claymore.[9]
Not fiercer pours the avalanche adown the steep incline,
That rises o'er the parent springs of rough and rapid Rhine,—
Scarce swifter shoots the bolt from heaven, than came the Scottish band
Right up against the guarded trench, and o'er it, sword in hand. 100
In vain their leaders forward press,—they meet the deadly brand!
O lonely island of the Rhine,—Where seed was never sown,
What harvest lay upon thy sands, by those strong reapers thrown?
What saw the winter moon that night, as, struggling through the rain,
She pour'd a wan and fitful light on marsh, and stream, and plain? 105
A dreary spot with corpses strewn, and bayonets glistening round;
A broken bridge, a stranded boat, a bare and batter'd mound;
And one huge watch-fire's kindled pile, that sent its quivering glare
To tell the leaders of the host the conquering Scots were there.
And did they twine the laurel-wreath,[10] for those who fought
so well 110
And did they honour those who liv'd, and weep for those who fell?
What meed of thanks was given to them let aged annals tell.
Why should they bring the laurel-wreath,—why crown the cup with wine?
It was not Frenchmen's blood that flow'd so freely on the Rhine,—
A stranger band of beggar'd men had done the venturous deed; 115
The glory was to France alone, the danger was their meed,
And what cared they for idle thanks from foreign prince and peer?
What virtue had such honey'd words the exiled heart to cheer?
What matter'd it that men should vaunt, and loud and fondly swear
That higher feat of chivalry was never wrought elsewhere? 120
They bore within their breast the grief that fame can never heal,—
The deep, unutterable woe which none save exiles feel.
Their hearts were yearning for the land they ne'er might see again,—
For Scotland's high and heather'd hills, for mountains, loch and glen—
For those who haply lay at rest beyond the distant sea, 125
Beneath the green and daisied turf where they would gladly be!
Long years went by. The lonely isle in Rhine's tempestuous flood
Has ta'en another name from those who bought it with their blood:
And, though the legend does not live,—for legends lightly die—
The peasant, as he sees the stream in winter rolling by, 130
And foaming o'er its channel-bed between him and the spot
Won by the warriors of the sword, still calls that deep
and dangerous ford
The Passage of the Scot.
—Aytoun.
[1] serried. crowded.
[2] Mareschal. Marshal, an officer of the highest rank in the French army.
[3] Duguesclin. A noted French commander, famous for his campaigns against the English in the 14th century.
[4] Dundee. John Graham of Claverhouse, Viscount Dundee, a Scottish soldier. He raised a body of Highlanders in 1689 to fight for James II against William of Orange. At the battle of Killecrankie (1689) he was mortally wounded.
[5] The Pass. The Pass of Killecrankie.