WALLACE AND BRUCE.
9
Shrouded in Scotland's blood-stained 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,
B
