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Well fought the Southern in the fray,
Clifford and Lorn fought well that day,
But stubborn Edward forced his way

Against an hundred foes.
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,
Clamour'd the dogs till turrets rung,

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,
Yet gain'd with slender train the port,
Where lay his bark beneath the fort,

And cut the cable loose.

Short were his shrift in that debate,

That hour of fury and of fate,

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. Live
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 to my friends, my thanks be given !"-
He paused a space, his brow he crossd
Then on the board his sword he toss'd,

Yet steaming hot; with Southern gore
From hilt to point 'twas crimson'd o'er.

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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, Without a vow as true as mine, To hold both lands and life at nought, Until her freedom shall be bought,Be brand of a disloyal Scoty And lasting infamy his lot! Sit, gentle friends ! our hour of glee Is brief, we'll spend it joyously! 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 !

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Speed messengers the country through ;
Arouse old friends, and gather new;
Warn Lanark's knights to gird their mail,
Rouse the brave sons of Teviotdale,

Let Ettrick's archers sharp their darts,

The fairest forms, the truest hearts !

Call all, call all ! from Reedswair-path, To the wild confines of Cape-Wrath ; Wide let the news through Scotland ring, The Northern Eagle claps his wing !".

NUS

END OF CANTO FIFTH.

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