3rd Soldier. He's a king By nature, though descent were lost in churls. 2nd Soldier. Ay, ay; but mark: I'll reason of our state. Here many days we've wasted in the wild, Chased by the English like the deer we chase, Exposed like them, without their native wont, Beneath this fickle, rigorous northern clime, Ill-fed, ill-clad, and excommunicate; While decent burghers--Scots as true as we-- Live warm, and prosper with their families. I think we're fools. 1st Soldier. Fools for ourselves, maybe, But wise I hope for Scotland: and the folk In every town and village think us wise, And bless and pray for us. Bruce [aside]. A brave heart that. [Advancing.] Good evening, comrades. Can you guess the time? 1st Soldier. An hour past sunset. Look, your Majesty; Barred by these trunks the cloudy embers burn Where day is going out. Bruce. Faintly I see. Your fire's so bright it dims the distant glow. Sit down again, good friends. 1st Soldier. A story, sir? 2nd Soldier. O, pray you tell us one! Bruce. I think I will. I've told you many tales of chivalry, Of faerie, and of Greeks and Romans too; But now I'll tell you of a Scotchman--one Who lived when Rome was most puissant here. The Roman governor, a valiant man, Agricola, in whom ambition paused Whenever prudence thought the utmost done, Reconquered all the southern British tribes, And drove his enemy beyond the Forth. The noble Galgacus then swayed the realm That stretches northward of that winding stream; And while the Roman, building forts and walls, As was his wont, secured the bird in hand, He mustered from his glens a skin-clad host To fight for freedom. Ardoch they call it, Where the armies met. Ere the battle joined, Firm on his chariot-floor with voice aflame, The Scottish chief harangued his thirty thousand. "Brothers," he cried, "behold your enemies! Gauls, Germans, Britons--mercenaries, slaves! In conquest, one and strong; but in defeat, So many weaklings, heartless, hopeless, lost. One signal victory to us were more Than all the battles that our foes have won: Their confidence is in their leader; ours, In our cause. Hearken!--had I a voice, Like heaven's thunder, I would shout across This battle-field to be, to yon mixed throng, And tell them they are Britons, Germans, Gauls: Bid them remember how in haughty Rome Their free-born countrymen are taught to serve The wanton fancies of luxurious vice In perfumed chambers or in bloody shows; Think of their wives and daughters, all abused; Think of themselves, leagued with their conquerors Armed and opposed against consanguine folk, Placed in the van to bear the battle's brunt, That Rome may triumph, and her blood not shed: Then would they turn and rend with us the foe. What need has Rome of Britain? we, of Rome? We, the last lonely people of the North, A morsel merely, perilous and far, Incite the eagle appetite of Rome,