The branchy antlers and the dappled coat
Of "poor sequestered stag," and yet not yearn
To—make him venison. Yon brabbling burn
Makes mellower music in my Scottish ears.
Then the Macallum's slogan. How the cheers
Of Salisbury must have fired him as he smote;
Hacked at my character, hewed at my throat
Like "sullen spearsman" upon Flodden field.
The claymore, like his sires, he loved to wield.
They lost their heads he says, for England's weal,