For I will not!--Behold, the Scots ask mercy! Umfraville. They do--from Heaven. These men will win or die. Edward II. I hate such kneeling, whining warriors, I! What right have they to think God on their side? Our glorious father taught them otherwise With iteration one had deemed enough. I burn to teach them finally. My lords, Our swords shall pray for us. One hour's hot work, And Scotland is your own. Let us begin! Each to his post, and everlasting shame Blight him who cherishes a moment's thought Of other means of victory than these, Our English bows and lances, English hearts, And not less English courage of our friends Whose foreign banners grace our army. Come; England shall stretch from Orkney to Land's End After to-day. St. George for Merry England! [They go out. SCENE IV.--Another part of the Field. The Scottish Army. Enter Bruce and the other Leaders. Bruce. I think we all know well what courage is: Not thews, not blood, not bulk, not bravery: Its highest title, patience. Fiery haste Has lost most battles. Till the word be given, Let no man charge to-day: no seeming flight Must lead you to pursue: take root; grow strong; The earth is Scottish. For our country stand Like bastioned, frowning rocks that beard the sea, And triumph everlastingly. Doubt not The time to charge will come--once and straight home: We'll need no spur: so must you curb your blood; Command your anguished strength: a false start now Will lose a race we cannot run again. If any of you feel unfit for fight From any cause whatever, let him go, Leaving us undiluted. Scorn nor curse Shall blast him; but our generous thought shall praise His act and consecrate his name, As one who did his best in doing nought; For victory depends on each of us. I say, if gallant souls be timorous, Get them behind the hill, and be not sad: Great courage goes to make an open coward. [A great shout. Then are we all one heart. Our enemies, Our English enemies, who hope to drown The very name of Scot in Scottish blood, And these outlandish battle-harlots, hired From Holland, Zealand, Brabant, Normandy, Those Picards, Flemings, Gascons, Guiennese, The refuse of the realms from which they swarm, Are robbers lured by plunder, one and all, From king to scullion: they are in the wrong. We are the weapon to defend the right God grasps to-day. Can we be put to shame? Soldiers. No! Bruce. Forward, trusty friends! The hour is come For long-desired redemption of the vows Groaned out when tender mothers, sisters, wives, Fathers we worshipped, brothers we adored, Were spared not. Let our battle-cry be--No; I'll give you none. Each soldier shout the name Of that best friend in prison buried quick; Of yonder heaven-homed, most beloved soul Among the multitude whose butchered limbs Lie pledged in sepulchres. My countrymen, Welcome to victory, which must be ours, For death is freedom! Soldiers. Victory or death! [Exeunt.