Each targe was dark below;
And with the ocean’s mighty swing,
When heaving to the tempest’s wing,
They hurl’d them on the foe.
I heard the lance’s shivering crash,
As when the whirlwind rends the ash;
I heard the broadsword’s deadly clang,
As if an hundred anvils rang!
But Moray wheel’d his rearward rank
Of horsemen on Clan-Alpine’s flank,