Sinks groaning on the field.
The Scots behold their leader fall,
And rank on rank they yield.
'On peasants! on--ye Normand men!
Strike down beneath your feet!'
For home and peace the Scots wish'd then;
But there was no retreat.
With corpses was the Kringell fill'd;
The ravens were regaled.
The youthful blood which there was spill'd