Some sate, some stood, some slowly stray’d;
But most, with mantles folded round,
Were couch’d to rest upon the ground,
Scarce to be known by curious eye,
From the deep heather where they lie,
So well was match’d the tartan screen
With heath bell dark and brackens green;
Unless where, here and there, a blade,
Or lance’s point, a glimmer made,
Like glowworm twinkling through the shade.