"Who brings this locket back to me
Be his the day's renown!"
Then 'mid the paynims mightily
He hurled the king's heart down.
Each made the cross with his left thumb,
The right hand held the lance,
No fear had they though fiends had come
To check their bold advance.
A sudden crash, a headlong flight,
And mad death raging around—
But when the sun sank in the sea's blue light
From the desert there came no sound.
For the pride of the east was there laid low
In the sweep of the death-strewed plain,
And the sand so red in the afterglow
Would never be white again.
Of all the heathen, by God's good grace
Not one had escaped that harm,
Short patience have men of the Scottish race
And ever a long sword-arm!
But where had been the fellest strife,
There lay in the moonlight clear
The good Earl Douglas, reft of life
By a hellish heathen spear.
All cleft and rent was the mail he wore,
And finished his mortal smart.
Yet under his shield he clasped once more
King Robert Bruce's heart.
* * * * *