Classic Poem

'T IS holy ground on which we tread!
Uncover'd be each pilgrim's head
In honor of the mighty dead —
The Chief of Ellerslie!

Hail, sacred shrine of Wallace wight!
Who in oppression's darkest night
Was ever foremost in the fight,
That Scotland might be free.

When Freedom's flag was soil'd and torn,
Here Wallace blew his bugle-horn,
Which waken'd up on summer's morn
Old Scotia's chivalry.

With hearts of fire, and souls of flame,
Our country's fierce avengers came,
While thus the Chief in freedom's name
Cried, " On, and follow me!

" On, on ere Scotland breathes her last!
And answer to my bugle's blast,
For where the fight is thick and fast
There shall my good sword be.

" Yonder the Saxons' banner waves,
Which soon shall float above their graves,
For Scotia's sons shall ne'er be slaves,
Then, on and follow me! "

And, with the light of battle flush'd,
Then like the tempest down they rush'd,
And Surrey and his host were crush'd,
And Scotland still was free.

And still our ancient legends say
The Chief's sword made a roomy way,
Till rank on rank the Southrons lay
On yonder bloody lea.

On many another battle plain,
Where Freedom's foemen strove in vain
A footing on our hills to gain,
That bugle sounded free.

It echo'd like a dying knell
Where rose the battle's loudest swell,
And where the death-show'r thickest fell
The foremost still was he.

Still Scotia hears that bugle-blast,
And still her hills are standing fast,
And sooner shall they be o'ercast,
And sunk into the sea,

Than she'll forget the hero brave,
Who freedom to his country gave,
And found a martyr's bloody grave,
Great Knight of Ellerslie!

While heather on a hill remains,
While thistle waves upon our plains,
While Scottish blood leaps in our veins,
Great Chief! we'll honor thee.

And patriot heroes yet unborn
Shall start up at thy bugle-horn,
Which raised our sires that summer's morn,
And Scotland aye be free!