Page:Wallace and Bruce (Edinburgh).pdf/2



morn rose bright on scenes renown'd, Wild Caledonia's classic ground, Where the bold sons of other days Won their high fame in Ossian's lays, And fell—but not till Carron's tide With Roman blood was darkly dyed. The morn rose bright—and heard the cry Sent by exulting hosts on high, And saw the white-cross banner float, (While rung each clansman's gathering note) O'er the dark plumes and serried spears Of Scotland's daring Mountaineers, As all elate with hope, they stood, To buy their freedom with their blood. The sunset shone—to guide the flying, And beam a farewell to the dying! The summer-moon, on Falkirk's field, Streams upon eyes in slumber sealed; Deep slumber—not to pass away When breaks another morning's ray, Nor vanish, when the trumpet's voice Bids ardent hearts again rejoice; What sunbeam's glow, what clarion's breath, May chase the still cold sleep of death? Shrouded in Scotland's blood-stain'd plaid, Low are her mountain-warriors laid; They fell, on that proud soil, whose mould Was blent with heroes' dust of old, And guarded by the free and brave, Yielded the Roman—but a grave! Nobly they fell—yet with them died The warrior's hope, the leader's pride. Vainly they fell—that martyr-host— All, save the land's high soul, is lost. Blest are the slain! they calmly sleep, Nor hear their bleeding country weep; The shouts, of England's triumph telling, Reach not their dark and silent dwelling; And those, surviving to bequeath Their sons the choice of chains or death,