| |
| KING ROBERT bore with gasping breath | |
| The strife of mortal pain, | |
| And, gathering round the couch of death, | |
| His nobles mourned in vain. | |
| Bathed were his brows in chilling dew | 5 |
| As thus he faintly cried, | |
| “Red Comyn in his sins I slew | |
| At the high altar’s side. | |
| |
| “For this a vow my soul hath bound | |
| In armed lists to ride, | 10 |
| A warrior to that Holy Ground | |
| Where my Redeemer died: | |
| Lord James of Douglas, see! we part! | |
| I die before my time, | |
| I charge thee bear this pulseless heart | 15 |
| A pilgrim to that clime.” | |
| |
| He ceased, for lo! in close pursuit, | |
| With fierce and fatal strife, | |
| He came, who treads with icy foot | |
| Upon the lamp of life. | 20 |
| The brave Earl Douglas, trained to meet | |
| Dangers and perils wild, | |
| Now kneeling at his sovereign’s feet | |
| Wept as a weaned child. | |
| |
| Beneath Dunfirmline’s hallowed nave, | 25 |
| Enwrapt in cloth of gold, | |
| The Bruce’s relics found a grave | |
| Deep in their native mould; | |
| But locked within its silver vase, | |
| Next to Lord James’s breast, | 30 |
| His heart went journeying on apace, | |
| In Palestine to rest. | |
| |
| While many a noble Scottish knight, | |
| With sable shield and plume, | |
| Rode as its guard in armor bright | 35 |
| To kiss their Saviour’s tomb. | |
| As on the scenery of Spain | |
| They bent a traveller’s eye, | |
| Forth came in bold and glorious train, | |
| Her flower of chivalry. | 40 |
| |
| Led by Alphonso ’gainst the Moor, | |
| They came in proud array, | |
| And set their serried phalanx sure | |
| To bide the battle-fray. | |
| “God save ye now, ye gallant band | 45 |
| Of Scottish warriors true, | |
| Good service for the Holy Land | |
| Ye on this field may do.” | |
| |
| So with the cavalry of Spain | |
| In brother’s grasp they closed, | 50 |
| And the grim Saracen in vain | |
| Their blended might opposed; | |
| But Douglas, with his falcon-glance | |
| O’erlooking crest and spear, | |
| Saw brave St. Clair with broken lance, | 55 |
| That friend from childhood dear. | |
| |
| He saw him by a thousand foes | |
| Opprest and overborne, | |
| And high the blast of rescue rose | |
| From his good bugle-horn; | 60 |
| And reckless of the Moorish spears | |
| In bristling ranks around, | |
| His monarch’s heart oft steeped in tears | |
| He from his neck unbound, | |
| |
| And flung it toward the battle front, | 65 |
| And cried with panting breath, | |
| “Pass first, my liege, as thou wert wont,— | |
| I follow thee to death.” | |
| Stern Osmyn’s sword was dire that day, | |
| And keen the Moorish dart, | 70 |
| And there Earl Douglas bleeding lay | |
| Beside the Bruce’s heart. | |
| |
| Embalmed with Scotland’s flowing tears, | |
| That peerless champion fell, | |
| And still the lyre to future years | 75 |
| His glorious deeds shall tell. | |
| The “good Lord James” that honored name | |
| Each Scottish babe shall call, | |
| And all who love the Bruce’s fame | |
| Shall mourn the Douglas’ fall. | 80 |
| |
