Where Roslin’s chiefs uncoffin’d lie,
Each Baron, for a sable shroud, 35
Sheathed in his iron panoply.
Seem’d all on fire, within, around,
Deep sacristy and altar’s pale;
Shone every pillar foliage-bound,
And glimmer’d all the dead men’s mail. 40
Blazed battlement and pinnet high,
Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair—
So still they blaze, when fate is nigh