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 Loud were the clanging blows; Advanced, forced back, now low, now high,

The pennon sank and rose; As bends the bark's mast in the gale, When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail,

It wavered 'mid the foes.

��THE LAST STAND

BY this, though deep the evening fell, Still rose the battle's deadly swell, For still the Scots, around their King, Unbroken, fought in desperate ring. Where's now their victor vaward wing,

Where Huntly, and where Home? O for a blast of that dread horn, On Fontarabian echoes borne,

That to King Charles did come, When Roland brave, and Olivier, And every paladin and peer,

On Roncesvalles died ! Such blast might warn them, not in vain, To quit the plunder of the slain, And turn the doubtful day again,

While yet on Flodden side Afar the Royal Standard flies, And round it toils, and bleeds, and dies

Our Caledonian pride !

But as they left the dark'ning heath, More desperate grew the strife of death.

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