"From the raised vizor's shade, his eye,
"Dark-rolling, glanced the ranks along,
"And his steel truncheon, waved on high,
"Seem'd marshalling the iron throng.
"But yet his sadden'd brow confess'd
"A passing shade of doubt and awe;
"Some fiend was whispering in his breast,
'Beware of injured Bothwellhaugh!'
"The death-shot parts—the charger springs—
"Wild rises tumult's startling roar!—
"And Murray's plumy helmet rings—
"—Rings on the ground, to rise no more.
"What joy the raptured youth can feel,
"To hear her love the loved one tell,
"Or he, who broaches on his steel
"The wolf, by whom his infant fell!
"But dearer, to my injured eye,
"To see in dust proud Murray roll;
"And mine was ten times trebled joy,
"To hear him groan his felon soul.
"My Margaret's spectre glided near;
"With pride her bleeding victim saw;
"And shrieked in his death-deafen'd ear,
'Remember injured Bothwellhaugh!'
"Then speed thee, noble Chatlerault!
"Spread to the wind thy bannered tree!
"Each warrior bend his Clydesdale bow!—
"Murray is fallen, and Scotland free."
Vaults every warrior to his steed;
Loud bugles join their wild acclaim—
"Murray is fallen, and Scotland freed!
"Couch, Arran! couch thy spear of flame!"
But, see! the minstrel vision fails—
The glimmering spears are seen no more;
The shouts of war die on the gales,
Or sink in Evan's lonely roar.
For the loud bugle, pealing high,
The blackbird whistles down the vale,
And sunk in ivied ruins lie
The banner'd towers of Evandale.