And did they twine the laurel-wreath For those who fought so well? And did they honour those who lived, And weep for those who fell? What meed of thanks was given to them Let aged annals tell. Why should they twine the laurel-wreath-- Why crown the cup with wine? It was not Frenchman's blood that flowed So freely on the Rhine-- A stranger band of beggared men Had done the venturous deed: The glory was to France alone, The danger was their meed. And what cared they for idle thanks From foreign prince and peer? What virtue had such honeyed words The exiles' hearts to cheer? What mattered it that men should vaunt, And loud and fondly swear, That higher feat of chivalry Was never wrought elsewhere? They bore within their breasts the grief That fame can never heal-- The deep, unutterable woe Which none save exiles feel. Their hearts were yearning for the land They ne'er might see again-- For Scotland's high and heathered hills, For mountain, loch, and glen-- For those who haply lay at rest Beyond the distant sea, Beneath the green and daisied turf Where they would gladly be! XII. Long years went by. The lonely isle In Rhine's impetuous flood Has ta'en another name from those Who bought it with their blood: And though the legend does not live, For legends lightly die, The peasant, as he sees the stream In winter rolling by, And foaming o'er its channel-bed Between him and the spot Won by the warriors of the sword, Still calls that deep and dangerous ford The Passage of the Scot. CHARLES EDWARD AT VERSAILLES