And Tweed’s fair river, broad and deep,
And Cheviot’s mountains lone;
The battled towers, the Donjon keep,
The loophole grates where captives weep,
The flanking walls that round it sweep,
Built of the thickest stone:—
Of stalworth knight and champion grim
With square-turn’d joints and strength of limb;
Of Haco’s floating banner trim;
Of Wallace wight, and Martin Swart,