’Tis stubborn as his trusty targe.
Each to his post—all know their charge.”
The pibroch sounds, the bands advance,
The broadswords gleam, the banners dance,
Obedient to the Chieftain’s glance.
—I turn me from the martial roar,
And seek Coir-Uriskin once more.
IX.
Where is the Douglas?—he is gone;
And Ellen sits on the gray stone