Classic Poem

The good Lord Douglas — dead of old —
In his last journeying
Wore at his heart, encased in gold,
The heart of Bruce, his king.

Through Paynim lands to Palestine,
For so his troth was plight;
To lay that gold on Christ his shrine,
Let fall what peril might.

By night and day, a weary way
Of vigil and of fight,
Where never rescue came by day,
Nor ever rest by night.

And one by one the valiant spears
Were smitten from his side,
And one by one the bitter tears
Fell for the brave that died.

Till fierce and black around his track
He saw the combat close,
And counted but the single sword
Against uncounted foes.

He drew the casket from his breast,
He bared his solemn brow;
Oh, foremost of the kingliest!
Go " first in battle " now!

Where leads my Lord of Bruce, the sword
Of Douglas shall not stay!
Forward! And to the feet of Christ
I follow thee, to-day.

The casket flashed; the battle clashed,
Thundered and rolled away;
And dead above the heart of Bruce
The heart of Douglas lay!

Loyal! Methinks the antique mould
Is lost, or theirs alone
Who sheltered Freedom's heart of gold,
Like Douglas, with their own!