The Poems of Mackenzie Bell

The summer sunbeams on the shields
Of warriors brightly glancing,
Illume the mail of many a man
And many a charger prancing,
And gallant crest that in the breeze
Full gaily now is dancing;

Each Moslem there with scimitar,
Upon his Arab horse,
Moves with a calm, a fearless mien,
Unswerving in his course.

Lo here at length the stately strength
The Cross and Crescent wield,
As deadly foes now darkly close
Upon this fatal field.

The Spaniards' stroke hath broken through
The dense opposing line!
Yet none the less both armies press
Around their standard-sign,

And many a jennet of Castile
Runs free with dangling rein,
While many a Paynim once so proud
Lies lifeless on the plain.

First in the van the Douglas rides,
With all his men-at-arms,—
A worthy company are they
To front the Paynim swarms.

With bloody spur and loosened rein
They break the stubborn foe,
So swift the chase they scarce can trace
The course by which they go,

Till, looking back upon their track,
The Paynim ranks they see
Have closed them in, 'mid dust and din
With shout of wolfish glee.

“We find full late the danger great,”
Sir Douglas cries, “return!
And charge the foe like Scots we know
The rout at Bannockburn.

“Surely the men who conquered then
Vain Edward's mighty host
Will never yield this sacred field
Nor let the base Moor boast.”

So, boldly speaking, quick he turns—
He gallops to the rear—
This dauntless quest through fierce unrest
As gallant doth appear
As his who braves the foam-flaked waves
To succour one most dear.

As Douglas passed the blows fell fast—
Stern was the conflict wild,
With steeds and men, who ne'er again
Would rise, the field was piled.

Yet, with his followers not a few,
Now he has cleft his way
With flashing eye and flashing blade
Straight through the grim array,

Once more he glances round, and sees,
Still in the thickest fight,
William Sinclair, his well-beloved,
A very valiant knight.

Full oft had they in tourney gay
Their chargers deftly wheeled,
Full oft were nigh in days gone by
On many a battle field,—

“Ride to the rescue!” Douglas shouts,
“Ride on, and do not spare,
To save him from a woeful death
Which of you will not dare!”

Urging his horse with headlong force,
He seeks to render aid,
And many a tunic's fold is cleft
By his resistless blade;

Yet is he left, of friends bereft,
Swart foemen all around,
Through the echoing strokes on helm and shield
Of help there comes no sound.

Now snatches he the jewelled casque
Where lies the heart he loves,
('Tis strange to see how tenderly
His mailed hand o'er it moves),

And flings it forward, forward yet,
With this his battle cry,
“Press on, brave Heart, as thou wert wont:
I follow thee, or die!”

With lifted lance he makes advance
To where his treasure fell,
Each crash of blow—now fast, now slow—
Like a rude requiem knell,

And left alone, yet ne'er o'erthrown,
He grapples with the foe,
Until a sword-thrust piercing him
At last doth lay him low.

Then gallantly he struggles still,
Half kneeling on the plain,
And there, o'erwhelmed by many a wound,
The peerless knight is slain.

So died the chief, his life well lost
In Scottish hero's work,
The stainless Douglas, he who sleeps
In mossy Douglas kirk.

University of Virginia Library

THE KEEPING OF THE VOW.

A.D. 1330.