The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith :: :: University of Virginia Library

Fy! fy! Oliver fled!
Yet he had ten thousand men!
All captured now, wounded, or dead,
And the foe had not one for his ten!
They were gathered from hill and from glen
To the muster on Solway shore,
And there's grief now on many a Ben,
But the shame of it touches me more.

My heart within me is bowed
By the news of this sorrowful day;
Let the women make ready my shroud,
It is time I were hasting away.
I have often been merry and gay
With a lass and a glass and a stave,
For I cared but for pleasure and play,
And now they have dug me a grave.

That dower of Marjorie Bruce—
A crown with no head it would fit—
On our brows it has ever sat loose,
And brought only trouble with it.
Yet we lacked not courage or wit,
And we loved the old land and its fame,
But we heeded not snaffle or bit,
When a woman would rule in the game.

The gossips now tell me I've got
A fine lass-bairn to embrace;
Heaven help her! a sorrowful lot
She will have, I fear me, to face.
For let her have beauty and grace,
And a mind that is noble and great,
She comes of a tragical race,
And she will have a tragical fate.

For my Barons are selfish and proud,
Taken up with old family feuds;
And the Prelates are clamouring loud
For the heretics' lives and their goods;
And the monks glare out of their hoods
At the progress of freedom and light;
And the peasantry sullenly broods
On their wrongs, and to have them set right.

The end of the old world is near,
And alas! in the shock of the change,
How much will go down that is dear!
How much there will be to avenge!
Ah, God's work is fearful and strange;
Crown and sceptre and temple and tower,
And all that man's wit may arrange
Goes down when He stirs in His power.

But get ready the christening feast,
Let the gossips bring candle and cup,
And the child have a good time at least,
Ere the depths in their terror break up.
I will put on the crown when I sup,
Though I wear it in shame and in pain,
It came with a lass on the crup,
With a lass it will leave us again.

And send for the man on the Dryfe,
That Oliver also may feast.
Why not? since he still has his life,
'Tis but honour and valour have ceased,
And he'll readily find him a priest
Who will heal for a groat his smart,
As 'tis only the poor he has fleeced,
And broken his old king's heart.

It is not the slow touch of Time
That has sprinkled my hair so with grey,
For I'm all but a man in my prime,
But the spring of my life is away.
I have come to the end of my day,
And seen its last lights where they fall
On the clouds, and have only to pray,
As I turn a grey face to the wall.