Classic Poem

When the great Chieftain falls the clans must weep!
To-day their banners flame on all the hills,
And, far or near, their solemn glory fills
Valley and glen the while he lies asleep.
The pibroch does not waken him; the deep,
Wild slogan now his heart no longer thrills,
Nor the loud summons when a Nation wills
Its chosen Lord with it the tryst shall keep!
Yea, clansmen, bear him to his sacred rest
With muffled drums and trumpets breathing low;
There is no stain upon his spotless shield
Nor on his hands close folded on his breast.
Yet take ye courage, for full well ye know
How " A Dead Douglas surely wins the field! "