--Yet again the tartans hail One smile of Scotland's ancient face; One favour waits the faithful race,-- One triumph more at Falkirk crowns the Gael! And O! what drop of Scottish blood that runs Could aught, save do or die, And Bannockburn so nigh? What cause to higher height could animate her sons? 15 Up the gorse-embattled brae, With equal eager feet they dash, And on the moorland summit clash, Friend mix'd with foe in stormy disarray: Once more the Northern charge asserts its right, As with the driving rain They drive them down the plain: That star alone before Drummossie gilds the night. 16 --Ah! No more!--let others tell The agony of the mortal moor; Death's silent sheepfold dotted o'er With Scotland's best, sleet-shrouded as they fell! There on the hearts, once mine, the snow-wreaths drift; Night's winter dews at will In bitter tears distil, And o'er the field the stars their squadrons coldly shift. 17 Faithful in a faithless age! Yet happier, in that death-dew drench'd, In each rude hand the claymore clench'd, Than who, to soothe a nation's craven rage, To the red scaffold went with steady eye, And the red martyr-grave, For one, who could not save! Who only lives to weep the weight of life, and die! 18 --He ended, with such grief As fits and honours manhood:--Then, once more Weaving that long romantic lay, told o'er The names of clan and chief Who perill'd all for him, and died;--and how In islets, caves, and clefts, and bare high mountain-brow 19 The wanderer hid, and all His Odyssey of woes!--Then, agonized Not by the wrongs he suffer'd and despised, But for the Cause's fall,-- The faces, loved and lost, that for his sake Were raven-torn and blanch'd, high on the traitor's stake, 20 As on Drummossie drear They fell,--as a dead body falls,--so he; Swoon-senseless at that killing memory Seen across year on year: O human tears! O honourable pain! Pity unchill'd by age, and wounds that bleed again! 21 --Ah, much enduring heart! Ah soul, miscounsell'd oft and lured astray, In that long life-despair, from wisdom's way And thy young hero-part!-- --And yet--DILEXIT MULTUM!--In that cry Love's gentler judgment pleads; thine epitaph a sigh!