Well fought the Southern in the fray, But stubborn Edward forced his way Loud came the cry, "The Bruce, the Bruce !" No hope or in defence or truce, Fresh combatants pour in; Mad with success, and drunk with gore, They drive the struggling foe before, And ward on ward they win. Unsparing was the vengeful sword, And limbs were lopp'd and life-blood pour'd, The cry of death and conflict roar'd, And fearful was the din! The startling horses plunged and flung, Nor sunk the fearful cry, Till not a foeman was there found Alive, save those who on the ground Groan'd in their agony ! XXXII. The valiant Clifford is no more; On Ronald's broadsword stream'd his gore. But better hap had he of Lorn, Who, by the foemen backward borne, And cut the cable loose. Short were his shrift in that debate, If Lorn encounter'd Bruce ! Then long and loud the victor shout From turret and from tower rung out, The rugged vaults replied; And from the donjon tower on high, The men of Carrick may descry Saint Andrew's cross, in blazonry Of silver, waving wide! XXXIII. The Bruce hath won his father's hall! -"Welcome, brave friends and comrades all, Welcome to mirth and joy! The first, the last, is welcome here, From lord and chieftain, prince and peer, To this poor speechless boy. Great God! once more my sire's abode Is mine-behold the floor I trode In tottering infancy!.. And there the vaulted arch, whose sound Echoed my joyous shout and bound In boyhood, and that rung around To youth's unthinking glee! O first, to thee, all-gracious Heaven, Then on the board his sword he toss'd, Yet steaming hot; with Southern gore XXXIV. Bring here," he said, "the mazers four, My noble fathers loved of yore. Thrice let them circle round the board, The pledge, fair Scotland's rights restored! And he whose lip shall touch the wine, To hold both lands and life at nought, Be brand of a disloyal Scot, And lasting infamy his lot! Sit, gentle friends! our hour of glee Blithest of all the sun's bright beams, When betwixt storm and storm he gleams. Well is our country's work begun, But more, far more, must yet be done! Speed messengers the country through; Warn Lanark's knights to gird their mail, Let Ettrick's archers sharp their darts, END OF CANTO FIFTH. |