A fearful form from Stirling's tower Was dimly seen to bend; He look'd as though, 'mid fate's far hour, Some mighty woe he kenn'd. White was his hair, and thin with age, One hand was raised on high, The other ope'd the mystic page Of human destiny. And oft, ere shone the moon's pale ray, His eyes were seen to turn Where, in the gloomy distance, lay The plain of Bannockburn. And fair uprose the queen of night, Shining o'er mount and main; Ben Lomond own'd her silvery light, Forth sparkled bright again. Fair, too, o'er loyal Scoone she shone, For there the Bruce had kneel'd, And, half forgetful, look'd she down On Falkirk's fatal field. For ere to-morrow's sun shall set, Stern Edward's self shall learn A lesson pride may ne'er forget, Where murmurs Bannockburn. A voice is heard from Stirling's tower, 'Tis of that aged seer, The lover leaves his lady's bower, Yet chides her timid tear. The infant wakes 'mid wild alarms, Prayers are in vain outpour'd; The bridegroom quits his bride's fond charms, And half unsheaths his sword. Yet who may fate's dark power withstand, Or who its mandate spurn? And still the seer uplifts his hand And points to Bannockburn. "There waves a standard o'er the brae, There gleams a highland sword; Is not yon form the Stewart, say,-- Yon, Scotland's Martial Lord? Douglas, with Arran's stranger chief, And Moray's earl, are there; Whilst drops of blood, for tears of grief, The coming strife declare. Oh! red th' autumnal heath-bells blow Within thy vale, Strathearne; But redder far, ere long, shall glow The flowers of Bannockburn! "Alas! for Edward's warrior pride, For England's warrior fame; Alas! that e'er from Thames' fair side Her gallant lances came! Lo! where De Bohun smiles in scorn,-- The Bruce, the Bruce is near! Rash earl, no more thy hunter horn Shall Malvern's blue hills hear! Back, Argentine, and thou, De Clare, To Severn's banks return Health smiles in rural beauty there,-- Death lours o'er Bannockburn! "Up, up, De Valence, dream no more Of Mothven's victor fight-- Thy bark is on a stormier shore, No star is thine to-night. And thou, De Burgh, from Erin's isle, Whom Eth O'Connor leads, Love's tear shall soon usurp his smile In Ulster's emerald meads. But oh! what tears will Cambria shed When _she_ the tale shall learn-- For Forth's full tide shall flow blood red, Ere long, from Bannockburn!