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 Each looked to sun, and stream, and plain, As what they ne'er might see again; Then foot, and point, and eye opposed In dubious strife they darkly closed.

Ill far'd it then with Rhoderick Dhu, That on the field his targe he threw, Whose brazen studs and tough bull-hide Had death so often dashed aside; For, trained abroad his arms to wield, Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield, He practised every pass and ward, Co thurst, to strike, to faint, to guard; While less expert, but stronger far, The Gael maintained unequal war. Three times in closing strife they stood, And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood; No stinted draught, no scanty tide, The gushing flood the tartans dyed. Fierce Rhoderick felt the fatal drain, And showered his blows like wintry rain: And as firm rock, or castle roof, Against the wintry shower is proof, The foe, invulnerable still, Boiled his wild rage by steady skill; Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand Forced Rhoderick's weapon from his hand, And, backwards borne upon the lea, Brought the proud Chieftain to his knee. Now, yield thee, or by Him who made The world, thy heart's blood dyes my blade! Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy! Let recreant yield who fears to die,'— Like adder darting from his coil,