Classic Poem

Five centuries have wandered by,
Since on the spot where now I stand,
Stood Bruce, and waved his brand on high,
To save his father-land.

And round his standard valiant wights,—
Chivalrous sons of Scotia's pride,—
High lineaged lords, and warrior knights,
Fought fiercely by his side.

Then, hill and valley, wood and field,
Were clothed in red and bright array,
By hostile ranks, who scorned to yield,
Or fly from the affray.

And blood and rapine fired each eye,
And fury girt each tendon tight;
As on they rushed, with martial cry,
To win the glorious fight!

Even now, in fancy, I can hear
The dreadful clash of war alarms,—
The hissing arrow—sword and spear—
Lance—dagger—battle-arms.

The dying struggles of the slain,—
Sobs, groanings, invocations, sighs!
And see them writhing on the plain,
With pain-expressive eyes.

And view the life-gore gurgling on,
Empurpling deep the wide morass,—
Revealing many warriors gone,
And spirits that do pass.

All these are swimming o'er my sight,
'Mid the confusive field of death!
Where in the maddened heat of fight,
Breath purchased breath.

Ay, ay! but fancy fails to show
The arm of prowess—bursting breast—
Revengeful eye—vermilion glow,
Of Warriors' sunk to rest.

For they were dauntless, true and brave,
In proud defence they joined the strife;
And swore their native rights to save,
Or spurn a conquered life.

Proud Edward lost his glory vain,
While Bruce maintained his regal fame,
And won new Laurels ne'er to stain,
By English hate, or dastard blame!

Shall Scottish heart forget that day,
When Death reeled thousands on the plain;
And their fore-fathers' loud huzza,
Cried, “Scotia's our's again!”