Thick blew the smoke across the stream, And faster flashed the flame: The water plashed in hissing jets As ball and bullet came. Yet onwards pushed the Cavaliers All stern and undismayed, With thousand armèd foes before, And none behind to aid. Once, as they neared the middle stream, So strong the torrent swept, That scarce that long and living wall, Their dangerous footing kept. Then rose a warning cry behind, A joyous shout before: "The current's strong--the way is long-- They'll never reach the shore! See, see! They stagger in the midst, They waver in their line! Fire on the madmen! break their ranks, And whelm them in the Rhine!" IX. Have you seen the tall trees swaying When the blast is piping shrill, And the whirlwind reels in fury Down the gorges of the hill? How they toss their mighty branches, Striving with the tempest's shock; How they keep their place of vantage, Cleaving firmly to the rock? Even so the Scottish warriors Held their own against the river; Though the water flashed around them, Not an eye was seen to quiver; Though the shot flew sharp and deadly, Not a man relaxed his hold: For their hearts were big and thrilling With the mighty thoughts of old. One word was spoke among them, And through the ranks it spread-- "Remember our dead Claverhouse!" Was all the Captain said. Then, sternly bending forward, They struggled on awhile, Until they cleared the heavy stream, Then rushed towards the isle. X. The German heart is stout and true, The German arm is strong; The German foot goes seldom back Where armèd foemen throng. But never had they faced in field So stern a charge before, And never had they felt the sweep Of Scotland's broad claymore. Not fiercer pours the avalanche Adown the steep incline, That rises o'er the parent springs Of rough and rapid Rhine-- Scarce swifter shoots the bolt from heaven Than came the Scottish band, Right up against the guarded trench, And o'er it, sword in hand. In vain their leaders forward press-- They meet the deadly brand! O lonely island of the Rhine, Where seed was never sown, What harvest lay upon thy sands, By those strong reapers thrown? What saw the winter moon that night, As, struggling through the rain, She poured a wan and fitful light On marsh, and stream, and plain? A dreary spot with corpses strewn, And bayonets glistening round; A broken bridge, a stranded boat, A bare and battered mound; And one huge watch-fire's kindled pile, That sent its quivering glare To tell the leaders of the host The conquering Scots were there! XI.