I have deepen'd my phalanx, and call'd forth my clan; They are true unto death, from the rear to the van! Their broad targes are tough, and their claymores are sharp, Shrill symphony meet for the wild war-pipe and harp; Their firm hands they hold ready; their bold hearts beat strong; Their dirks are stout steel-proof, and their pole-axes long. Then up with the Maxwells! not valour need say more; For their prowess was proved by banner and claymore. Huzza, huzza! II. To encounter for kindred, our clan, and our name, To a Lowlander these are far dearer than fame; To avenge the bold insult, dare glance at our clan, And die for our country, is to die like a man! Then up with the Maxwells! not valour need say more; We'll die as we ought, by our banner and claymore! Huzza, huzza! III. Huzza!--how we'll shriek on the day of the battle, In collision broad-sword and bay'net shall rattle, Our fierce foemen astound in the terrible charge, While death boldly strikes home thro' tartan and targe. Then up with the Maxwells! not valour need say more; We'll conquer, or die by our banner and claymore! Huzza, huzza! This slogan was chorussed by several hundreds of dirks, which, now unscabbarded, were loudly thundered on the hospitable board, and which glittered ominously in the reflected light of the blazing chandelier. The men of Annandale now started up; when claymore, dirk, and whinger, flew forth from their scabbards. The men of Nithsdale rose too at the same instant, and all was uproar, madness, riot, and inebriation; and the fierce and implacable hatred of the two clans, which, not extinct, had secretly lurked in their veins, now blazed forth with increased fury. It seemed as if fate had pronounced, "Let the loud trumpet far and near proclaim Our bloody feast, and at the rousing sound Let every clansman of the hated name His vengeful weapon clench." Malcolm, a faithful and affectionate follower and foster-brother of Sir David Bruce, foreseeing that the fete would end in a renewal of the old feud, took his own measures accordingly for his master's safety, and lost no time in pre-arranging his plans, and these he put in train, while all was noise and uproar at the banquet. He saw not unobserved how rapidly stoup of claret succeeded stoup, without any _interregnum_, and glasses of Fairntosh were dashed down in never-ending repetition. The war songs seemed too surely to strike the key of discord; passion begun to explode; word brought on word, and blow brought on blow. Then rung claymore upon iron breastplate, and upon leathern target. The scream of maddened wrath mingled with the groan of death.