Scott's Lady of the Lake

by Walter Scott

How shall it keep its rooted place,

The spearmen’s twilight wood?—

‘Down, down,’ cried Mar, ‘your lances down!

Bear back both friend and foe!’—

Like reeds before the tempest’s frown,

That serried grove of lances brown

At once lay level’d low;

And closely shouldering side to side,

The bristling ranks the onset bide.—

‘We’ll quell the savage mountaineer,