Nor would, for proudest prelate's form and state,
A traitor turn to his dear Master's cause;
With him no joy on earth so great could be,
As thus to die for Christ's supremacy.
On the lone mountains of their native land,
Where blooms the heather fragrantly and fair,
In the green valleys waved by breezes bland,
Struck mercilessly down while met in prayer,
Lie Scotland's martyrs in their nameless moulds,
Sustained by Him who the great worlds upholds. [(8)]