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Best Famous Bruce Poems

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Written by John Dryden | Create an image from this poem

Mac Flecknoe

 All human things are subject to decay,
And, when Fate summons, monarchs must obey:
This Flecknoe found, who, like Augustus, young
Was call'd to empire, and had govern'd long:
In prose and verse, was own'd, without dispute
Through all the realms of Non-sense, absolute.
This aged prince now flourishing in peace, And blest with issue of a large increase, Worn out with business, did at length debate To settle the succession of the State: And pond'ring which of all his sons was fit To reign, and wage immortal war with wit; Cry'd, 'tis resolv'd; for nature pleads that he Should only rule, who most resembles me: Shadwell alone my perfect image bears, Mature in dullness from his tender years.
Shadwell alone, of all my sons, is he Who stands confirm'd in full stupidity.
The rest to some faint meaning make pretence, But Shadwell never deviates into sense.
Some beams of wit on other souls may fall, Strike through and make a lucid interval; But Shadwell's genuine night admits no ray, His rising fogs prevail upon the day: Besides his goodly fabric fills the eye, And seems design'd for thoughtless majesty: Thoughtless as monarch oaks, that shade the plain, And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign.
Heywood and Shirley were but types of thee, Thou last great prophet of tautology: Even I, a dunce of more renown than they, Was sent before but to prepare thy way; And coarsely clad in Norwich drugget came To teach the nations in thy greater name.
My warbling lute, the lute I whilom strung When to King John of Portugal I sung, Was but the prelude to that glorious day, When thou on silver Thames did'st cut thy way, With well tim'd oars before the royal barge, Swell'd with the pride of thy celestial charge; And big with hymn, commander of an host, The like was ne'er in Epsom blankets toss'd.
Methinks I see the new Arion sail, The lute still trembling underneath thy nail.
At thy well sharpen'd thumb from shore to shore The treble squeaks for fear, the basses roar: Echoes from Pissing-Alley, Shadwell call, And Shadwell they resound from Aston Hall.
About thy boat the little fishes throng, As at the morning toast, that floats along.
Sometimes as prince of thy harmonious band Thou wield'st thy papers in thy threshing hand.
Andre's feet ne'er kept more equal time, Not ev'n the feet of thy own Psyche's rhyme: Though they in number as in sense excel; So just, so like tautology they fell, That, pale with envy, Singleton forswore The lute and sword which he in triumph bore And vow'd he ne'er would act Villerius more.
Here stopt the good old sire; and wept for joy In silent raptures of the hopeful boy.
All arguments, but most his plays, persuade, That for anointed dullness he was made.
Close to the walls which fair Augusta bind, (The fair Augusta much to fears inclin'd) An ancient fabric, rais'd t'inform the sight, There stood of yore, and Barbican it hight: A watch tower once; but now, so fate ordains, Of all the pile an empty name remains.
From its old ruins brothel-houses rise, Scenes of lewd loves, and of polluted joys.
Where their vast courts, the mother-strumpets keep, And, undisturb'd by watch, in silence sleep.
Near these a nursery erects its head, Where queens are form'd, and future heroes bred; Where unfledg'd actors learn to laugh and cry, Where infant punks their tender voices try, And little Maximins the gods defy.
Great Fletcher never treads in buskins here, Nor greater Jonson dares in socks appear; But gentle Simkin just reception finds Amidst this monument of vanish'd minds: Pure clinches, the suburbian muse affords; And Panton waging harmless war with words.
Here Flecknoe, as a place to fame well known, Ambitiously design'd his Shadwell's throne.
For ancient Decker prophesi'd long since, That in this pile should reign a mighty prince, Born for a scourge of wit, and flail of sense: To whom true dullness should some Psyches owe, But worlds of Misers from his pen should flow; Humorists and hypocrites it should produce, Whole Raymond families, and tribes of Bruce.
Now Empress Fame had publisht the renown, Of Shadwell's coronation through the town.
Rous'd by report of fame, the nations meet, From near Bun-Hill, and distant Watling-street.
No Persian carpets spread th'imperial way, But scatter'd limbs of mangled poets lay: From dusty shops neglected authors come, Martyrs of pies, and reliques of the bum.
Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby there lay, But loads of Shadwell almost chok'd the way.
Bilk'd stationers for yeoman stood prepar'd, And Herringman was Captain of the Guard.
The hoary prince in majesty appear'd, High on a throne of his own labours rear'd.
At his right hand our young Ascanius sat Rome's other hope, and pillar of the state.
His brows thick fogs, instead of glories, grace, And lambent dullness play'd around his face.
As Hannibal did to the altars come, Sworn by his sire a mortal foe to Rome; So Shadwell swore, nor should his vow be vain, That he till death true dullness would maintain; And in his father's right, and realm's defence, Ne'er to have peace with wit, nor truce with sense.
The king himself the sacred unction made, As king by office, and as priest by trade: In his sinister hand, instead of ball, He plac'd a mighty mug of potent ale; Love's kingdom to his right he did convey, At once his sceptre and his rule of sway; Whose righteous lore the prince had practis'd young, And from whose loins recorded Psyche sprung, His temples last with poppies were o'er spread, That nodding seem'd to consecrate his head: Just at that point of time, if fame not lie, On his left hand twelve reverend owls did fly.
So Romulus, 'tis sung, by Tiber's brook, Presage of sway from twice six vultures took.
Th'admiring throng loud acclamations make, And omens of his future empire take.
The sire then shook the honours of his head, And from his brows damps of oblivion shed Full on the filial dullness: long he stood, Repelling from his breast the raging god; At length burst out in this prophetic mood: Heavens bless my son, from Ireland let him reign To far Barbadoes on the Western main; Of his dominion may no end be known, And greater than his father's be his throne.
Beyond love's kingdom let him stretch his pen; He paus'd, and all the people cry'd Amen.
Then thus, continu'd he, my son advance Still in new impudence, new ignorance.
Success let other teach, learn thou from me Pangs without birth, and fruitless industry.
Let Virtuosos in five years be writ; Yet not one thought accuse thy toil of wit.
Let gentle George in triumph tread the stage, Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage; Let Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the pit, And in their folly show the writer's wit.
Yet still thy fools shall stand in thy defence, And justify their author's want of sense.
Let 'em be all by thy own model made Of dullness, and desire no foreign aid: That they to future ages may be known, Not copies drawn, but issue of thy own.
Nay let thy men of wit too be the same, All full of thee, and differing but in name; But let no alien Sedley interpose To lard with wit thy hungry Epsom prose.
And when false flowers of rhetoric thou would'st cull, Trust Nature, do not labour to be dull; But write thy best, and top; and in each line, Sir Formal's oratory will be thine.
Sir Formal, though unsought, attends thy quill, And does thy Northern Dedications fill.
Nor let false friends seduce thy mind to fame, By arrogating Jonson's hostile name.
Let Father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praise, And Uncle Ogleby thy envy raise.
Thou art my blood, where Jonson has no part; What share have we in Nature or in Art? Where did his wit on learning fix a brand, And rail at arts he did not understand? Where made he love in Prince Nicander's vein, Or swept the dust in Psyche's humble strain? Where sold he bargains, whip-stitch, kiss my ****, Promis'd a play and dwindled to a farce? When did his muse from Fletcher scenes purloin, As thou whole Eth'ridge dost transfuse to thine? But so transfus'd as oil on waters flow, His always floats above, thine sinks below.
This is thy province, this thy wondrous way, New humours to invent for each new play: This is that boasted bias of thy mind, By which one way, to dullness, 'tis inclin'd, Which makes thy writings lean on one side still, And in all changes that way bends thy will.
Nor let thy mountain belly make pretence Of likeness; thine's a tympany of sense.
A tun of man in thy large bulk is writ, But sure thou 'rt but a kilderkin of wit.
Like mine thy gentle numbers feebly creep, Thy Tragic Muse gives smiles, thy Comic sleep.
With whate'er gall thou sett'st thy self to write, Thy inoffensive satires never bite.
In thy felonious heart, though venom lies, It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dies.
Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame In keen iambics, but mild anagram: Leave writing plays, and choose for thy command Some peaceful province in acrostic land.
There thou may'st wings display and altars raise, And torture one poor word ten thousand ways.
Or if thou would'st thy diff'rent talents suit, Set thy own songs, and sing them to thy lute.
He said, but his last words were scarcely heard, For Bruce and Longvil had a trap prepar'd, And down they sent the yet declaiming bard.
Sinking he left his drugget robe behind, Born upwards by a subterranean wind.
The mantle fell to the young prophet's part, With double portion of his father's art.

Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

The Incantation

 Scene: Federal Political Arena 
A darkened cave.
In the middle, a cauldron, boiling.
Enter the three witches.
1ST WITCH: Thrice hath the Federal Jackass brayed.
2ND WITCH: Once the Bruce-Smith War-horse neighed.
3RD WITCH: So Georgie comes, 'tis time, 'tis time, Around the cauldron to chant our rhyme.
1ST WITCH: In the cauldron boil and bake Fillet of a tariff snake, Home-made flannels -- mostly cotton, Apples full of moths, and rotten, Lamb that perished in the drought, Starving stock from "furthest out", Drops of sweat from cultivators, Sweating to feed legislators.
Grime from a white stoker's nob, Toiling at a ******'s job.
Thus the great Australian Nation, Seeks political salvation.
ALL: Double, double, toil and trouble, Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.
2ND WITCH: Heel-taps from the threepenny bars, Ash from Socialist cigars.
Leathern tongue of boozer curst With the great Australian thirst, Two-up gambler keeping dark, Loafer sleeping in the park -- Drop them in to prove the sequel, All men are born free and equal.
ALL: Double, double, toil and trouble, Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.
3RD WITCH:Lung of Labour agitator, Gall of Isaacs turning traitor; Spleen that Kingston has revealed, Sawdust stuffing out of Neild; Mix them up, and then combine With duplicity of Lyne, Alfred Deakin's gift of gab, Mix the gruel thick and slab.
ALL: Double, double, toil and trouble, Heav'n help Australia in her trouble.
HECATE: Oh, well done, I commend your pains, And everyone shall share i' the gains, And now about the cauldron sing, Enchanting all that you put in.
Round about the cauldron go, In the People's rights we'll throw, Cool it with an Employer's blood, Then the charm stands firm and good, And thus with chaos in possession, Ring in the coming Fed'ral Session.
Written by Edwin Muir | Create an image from this poem

Scotland 1941

 We were a tribe, a family, a people.
Wallace and Bruce guard now a painted field, And all may read the folio of our fable, Peruse the sword, the sceptre and the shield.
A simple sky roofed in that rustic day, The busy corn-fields and the haunted holms, The green road winding up the ferny brae.
But Knox and Melville clapped their preaching palms And bundled all the harvesters away, Hoodicrow Peden in the blighted corn Hacked with his rusty beak the starving haulms.
Out of that desolation we were born.
Courage beyond the point and obdurate pride Made us a nation, robbed us of a nation.
Defiance absolute and myriad-eyed That could not pluck the palm plucked our damnation.
We with such courage and the bitter wit To fell the ancient oak of loyalty, And strip the peopled hill and altar bare, And crush the poet with an iron text, How could we read our souls and learn to be? Here a dull drove of faces harsh and vexed, We watch our cities burning in their pit, To salve our souls grinding dull lucre out, We, fanatics of the frustrate and the half, Who once set Purgatory Hill in doubt.
Now smoke and dearth and money everywhere, Mean heirlooms of each fainter generation, And mummied housegods in their musty niches, Burns and Scott, sham bards of a sham nation, And spiritual defeat wrapped warm in riches, No pride but pride of pelf.
Long since the young Fought in great bloody battles to carve out This towering pulpit of the Golden Calf, Montrose, Mackail, Argyle, perverse and brave, Twisted the stream, unhooped the ancestral hill.
Never had Dee or Don or Yarrow or Till Huddled such thriftless honour in a grave.
Such wasted bravery idle as a song, Such hard-won ill might prove Time's verdict wrong, And melt to pity the annalist's iron tongue.
Written by Galway Kinnell | Create an image from this poem

Fergus Falling

He climbed to the top
of one of those million white pines
set out across the emptying pastures
of the fifties - some program to enrich the rich
and rebuke the forefathers
who cleared it all at once with ox and axe - 
climbed to the top, probably to get out
of the shadow
not of those forefathers but of this father
and saw for the first time
down in its valley, Bruce Pond, giving off
its little steam in the afternoon,

pond where Clarence Akley came on Sunday mornings to cut
the cedars around the shore, I'd sometimes hear the slow
of his work, he's gone,
where Milton Norway came up behind me while I was 
fishing and
stood awhile before I knew he was there, he's the one who
put the
cedar shingles on the house, some have curled or split, a 
few have
blown off, he's gone,
where Gus Newland logged in the cold snap of '58, the only
man will-
ing to go into those woods that never got warmer than ten
he's gone,
pond where two wards of the state wandered on Halloween, 
the Na-
tional Guard searched for them in November, in vain, the 
next fall a 
hunter found their skeletons huddled together, in vain, 
pond where an old fisherman in a rowboat sits, drowning
worms, when he goes he's replaced and is never gone,

and when Fergus
saw the pond for the first time
in the clear evening, saw its oldness down there
in its old place in the valley, he became heavier suddenly
in his bones
the way fledglings do just before they fly,
and the soft pine cracked .
I would not have heard his cry if my electric saw had been working, its carbide teeth speeding through the bland spruce of our time, or burning black arcs into some scavenged hemlock plank, like dark circles under eyes when the brain thinks too close to the skin, but I was sawing by hand and I heard that cry as though he were attacked; we ran out, when we bent over him he said, "Galway, In¨¦s, I saw a pond!" His face went gray, his eyes fluttered close a frightening moment .
Yes - a pond that lets off its mist on clear afternoons of August, in that valley to which many have come, for their reasons, from which many have gone, a few for their reasons, most not, where even now and old fisherman only the pinetops can see sits in the dry gray wood of his rowboat, waiting for pickerel.
Written by Edwin Muir | Create an image from this poem

Scotlands Winter

 Now the ice lays its smooth claws on the sill,
The sun looks from the hill
Helmed in his winter casket,
And sweeps his arctic sword across the sky.
The water at the mill Sounds more hoarse and dull.
The miller's daughter walking by With frozen fingers soldered to her basket Seems to be knocking Upon a hundred leagues of floor With her light heels, and mocking Percy and Douglas dead, And Bruce on his burial bed, Where he lies white as may With wars and leprosy, And all the kings before This land was kingless, And all the singers before This land was songless, This land that with its dead and living waits the Judgement Day.
But they, the powerless dead, Listening can hear no more Than a hard tapping on the floor A little overhead Of common heels that do not know Whence they come or where they go And are content With their poor frozen life and shallow banishment.

Written by William Topaz McGonagall | Create an image from this poem

The Battle of Culloden

 'Twas in the year of 1746, and in April the 14th day,
That Prince Charles Stuart and his army marched on without delay,
And on the 14th of April they encamped on Culloden Moor,
But the army felt hungry, and no food could they procure.
And the calls of hunger could not brook delay, So they resolved to have food, come what may; They, poor men, were hungry and in sore distress, And many of them, as well as officers, slipped off to Inverness.
The Prince gave orders to bring provisions to the field, Because he knew without food his men would soon yield To the pangs of hunger, besides make them feel discontent, So some of them began to search the neighbourhood for refreshment.
And others, from exhaustion, lay down on the ground, And soon in the arms of Morpheus they were sleeping sound; While the Prince and some of his officers began to search for food, And got some bread and whisky, which they thought very good.
The Highland army was drawn up in three lines in grand array, All eager for the fray in April the 16th day, Consisting of the Athole Brigade, who made a grand display On the field of Culloden on that ever-memorable day.
Likewise the Camerons, Stewarts, and Macintoshes, Maclachlans and Macleans, And John Roy Stewart's regiment, united into one, these are their names; Besides the Macleods, Chisholms, Macdonalds of Clanranald and Glengarry, Also the noble chieftain Keppoch, all eager the English to harry.
The second line of the Highland army formed in column on the right, Consisting of the Gordons, under Lord Lewis Gordon, ready for the fight; Besides the French Royal Scots, the Irish Piquets or Brigade, Also Lord Kilmamock's Foot Guards, and a grand show they made.
Lord John Drummond's regiment and Glenbucket's were flanked on the right By Fitz-James's Dragoons and Lord Elcho's Horse Guards, a magnificent sight; And on the left by the Perth squadron under Lord Strathallan, A fine body of men, and resolved to fight to a man.
And there was Pitsligo, and the Prince's body guards under Lord Balmerino, And the third line was commanded by General Stapleton, a noble hero; Besides, Lord Ogilvie was in command of the third line or reserve, Consisting of the Duke of Perth's regiment and Lord Ogilvy's-- men of firm nerve.
The Prince took his station on a very small eminence, Surrounded by a troop of Fitz-James's horse for his defence, Where he had a complete view of the whole field of battle, Where he could see the front line and hear the cannons rattle.
Both armies were about the distance of a mile from each other, All ready to commence the fight, brother against brother, Each expecting that the other would advance To break a sword in combat, or shiver a lance.
To encourage his men the Duke of Cumberland rode along the line, Addressing himself hurriedly to every regiment, which was really sublime; Telling his men to use their bayonets, and allow the Highlanders to mingle with them, And look terror to the rebel foe, and have courage, my men.
Then Colonel Belford of the Duke's army opened fire from the front line, After the Highlanders had been firing for a short time; The Duke ordered Colonel Belford to continue the cannonade, To induce the Highlanders to advance, because they seemed afraid.
And with a cannon-ball the Prince's horse was shot above the knee, So that Charles had to change him for another immediately; And one of his servants who led the horse was killed on the spot, Which by Prince Charles Stuart was never forgot.
'Tis said in history, before the battle began The Macdonalds claimed the right as their due of leading the van, And because they wouldn't be allowed, with anger their hearts did burn, Because Bruce conferred that honour upon the Macdonalds at the Battle of Bannockburn.
And galled beyond endurance by the fire of the English that day, Which caused the Highlanders to cry aloud to be led forward without delay, Until at last the brave Clan Macintosh rushed forward without dismay, While with grape-shot from a side battery hundreds were swept away.
Then the Athole Highlanders and the Camerons rushed in sword in hand, And broke through Barrel's and Monro's regiments, a sight most grand; After breaking through these two regiments they gave up the contest, Until at last they had to retreat after doing their best.
Then, stung to the quick, the brave Keppoch, who was abandoned by his clan, Boldly advanced with his drawn sword in hand, the brave man.
But, alas! he was wounded by a musket-shot, which he manfully bore, And in the fight he received another shot, and fell to rise no more.
Nothing could be more disastrous to the Prince that day, Owing to the Macdonalds refusing to join in the deadly fray; Because if they had all shown their wonted courage that day, The proud Duke of Cumberland's army would have been forced to run away.
And, owing to the misconduct of the Macdonalds, the Highlanders had to yield, And General O'Sullivan laid hold of Charles's horse, and led him off the field, As the whole army was now in full retreat, And with the deepest concern the Prince lamented his sore defeat.
Prince Charles Stuart, of fame and renown, You might have worn Scotland's crown, If the Macdonalds and Glengarry at Culloden had proved true; But, being too ambitious for honour, that they didn't do, Which, I am sorry to say, proved most disastrous to you, Looking to the trials and struggles you passed through.
Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

300. Scots Prologue for Mr. Sutherland

 WHAT needs this din about the town o’ Lon’on,
How this new play an’ that new sang is comin?
Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted?
Does nonsense mend, like brandy, when imported?
Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame,
Will try to gie us sangs and plays at hame?
For Comedy abroad he need to toil,
A fool and knave are plants of every soil;
Nor need he hunt as far as Rome or Greece,
To gather matter for a serious piece;
There’s themes enow in Caledonian story,
Would shew the Tragic Muse in a’ her glory.
— Is there no daring Bard will rise and tell How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell? Where are the Muses fled that could produce A drama worthy o’ the name o’ Bruce? How here, even here, he first unsheath’d the sword ’Gainst mighty England and her guilty Lord; And after mony a bloody, deathless doing, Wrench’d his dear country from the jaws of Ruin! O for a Shakespeare, or an Otway scene, To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen! Vain all th’ omnipotence of female charms ’Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion’s arms: She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman, To glut that direst foe—a vengeful woman; A woman, (tho’ the phrase may seem uncivil,) As able and as wicked as the Devil! One Douglas lives in Home’s immortal page, But Douglasses were heroes every age: And tho’ your fathers, prodigal of life, A Douglas followed to the martial strife, Perhaps, if bowls row right, and Right succeeds, Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads! As ye hae generous done, if a’ the land Would take the Muses’ servants by the hand; Not only hear, but patronize, befriend them, And where he justly can commend, commend them; And aiblins when they winna stand the test, Wink hard, and say The folks hae done their best! Would a’ the land do this, then I’ll be caition, Ye’ll soon hae Poets o’ the Scottish nation Will gar Fame blaw until her trumpet crack, And warsle Time, an’ lay him on his back! For us and for our Stage, should ony spier, “Whase aught thae chiels maks a’ this bustle here?” My best leg foremost, I’ll set up my brow— We have the honour to belong to you! We’re your ain bairns, e’en guide us as ye like, But like good mithers shore before ye strike; And gratefu’ still, I trust ye’ll ever find us, For gen’rous patronage, and meikle kindness We’ve got frae a’ professions, sets and ranks: God help us! we’re but poor—ye’se get but thanks.
Written by William Ernest Henley | Create an image from this poem

I. M. R. T. Hamilton Bruce (1846-1899)

 Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.
Written by William Topaz McGonagall | Create an image from this poem

The Battle of Bannockburn

 Sir Robert the Bruce at Bannockburn
Beat the English in every wheel and turn,
And made them fly in great dismay
From off the field without delay.
The English were a hundred thousand strong, And King Edward passed through the Lowlands all along.
Determined to conquer Scotland, it was his desire, And then to restore it to his own empire.
King Edward brought numerous waggons in his train, Expecting that most of the Scottish army would be slain, Hoping to make the rest prisoners, and carry them away In waggon-loads to London without delay.
The Scottish army did not amount to more than thirty thousand strong; But Bruce had confidence he'd conquer his foes ere long; So, to protect his little army, he thought it was right To have deep-dug pits made in the night; And caused them to be overlaid with turf and brushwood Expecting the plan would prove effectual where his little army stood, Waiting patiently for the break of day, All willing to join in the deadly fray.
Bruce stationed himself at the head of the reserve, Determined to conquer, but never to swerve, And by his side were brave Kirkpatrick and true De Longueville, Both trusty warriors, firm and bold, who would never him beguile.
By daybreak the whole of the English army came in view; Consisting of archers and horsemen, bold and true; The main body was led on by King Edward himself, An avaricious man, and fond of pelf.
The Abbot of Inchaffray celebrated mass, And all along the Scottish lines barefoot he did pass, With the crucifix in his hand, a most beautitul sight to see, Exhorting them to trust in God, and He would set them free.
Then the Scottish army knelt down on the field, And King Edward he thought they were going to yield, And he felt o'erjoyed, and cried to Earl Percy "See! See! the Scots are crying for mercy.
" But Percy said, "Your Majesty need not make such a fuss, They are crying for mercy from God, not from us; For, depend upon it, they will fight to a man, and find their graves Rather than yield to become your slaves.
" Then King Edward ordered his horsemen to charge, Thirty thousand in number, it was very large; They thought to o'erwhelm them ere they could rise from their knees, But they met a different destiny, which did them displease; For the horsemen fell into the spik'd pits in the way, And, with broken ranks and confusion, they all fled away, But few of them escap'd death from the spik'd pits, For the Scots with their swords hack'd them to bits; De Valence was overthrown and carried off the field, Then King Edward he thought it was time to yield.
And he uttered a fearful cry To his gay archers near by, Ho! archers! draw your arrows to the head, And make sure to kill them dead; Forward, without dread, and make them fly, Saint George for England, be our cry! Then the arrows from their bows swiftly did go, And fell amongst them as thick as the flakes of snow; Then Bruce he drew his trusty blade, And in heroic language said, Forward! my heroes, bold and true! And break the archers' ranks through and through! And charge them boldly with your swords in hand, And chase these vultures from off our land, And make King Edward mourn The day he came to Bannockburn.
So proud Edward on his milk-white steed, One of England's finest breed, Coming here in grand array, With horsemen bold and archers gay, Thinking he will us dismay, And sweep everything before him in his way; But I swear by yon blessed sun 1'11 make him and his army run From off the field of Bannockburn.
By St.
Andrew and our God most high, We'll conquer these epicures or die! And make them fly like chaff before the wind Until they can no refuge find; And beat them from the field without delay, Like lions bold and heroes gay Upon them! -- charge! -- follow me, Scotland's rights and liberty! Then the Scots charged them with sword in hand, And made them fly from off their land; And King Edward was amazed at the sight, And he got wounded in the fight; And he cried, Oh, heaven! England's lost, and I'm undone, Alas ! alas! where shall I run? Then he turned his horse, and rode on afar, And never halted till he reached Dunbar Then Bruce he shouted, Victory! We have gained our rights and liberty; And thanks be to God above That we have conquered King Edward this day, A usurper that does not us love.
Then the Scots did shout and sing Long 1ive Sir Robert Bruce our King' That made King Edward mourn The day he came to Bannockburn!
Written by William Topaz McGonagall | Create an image from this poem

Adventures of King Robert the Bruce

 King Robert the Bruce's deadly enemy, John of Lorn,
Joined the English with eight hundred Highlanders one morn,
All strong, hardy, and active fearless mountaineers,
But Bruce's men attacked them with swords and spears.
And while they were engaged, a new enemy burst upon them, Like a torrent of water rushing down a rocky glen: It was John of Lorn and his Highlanders that came upon them, So the tide of battle was too much for them to stem.
And with savage yells they made the valley ring, Then made a long circuit, and stole in behind the King, Whirling their broadswords and Lochaber axes left and right; And the enemy being thrice their number, they relinquished the fight Then to a certain house Bruce quickly hied, And sitting by the door the housewife he spied; And she asked him who he was, and he said, A wanderer, Then she said, All wanderers are welcome here, kind sir.
Then the King said, Good dame, tell me the reason why, How you respect all wanderers that chance to pass by, And for whose sake you bear such favour to homeless men? Then she said, King Robert the Bruce, if you want to ken, The lawful King of this country, whom I hope to see; Then the Bruce said, My good woman, your King stands before thee; And she said, Ah! Sire, where are your men gone? Then the King told her that he's come alone.
Then she said, Ah, my lawful King, this must not be, For I have two stout sons, and they shall follow thee, And fight to the death for your Majesty, Aye, in faith, my good King, by land or sea.
Then she brought her sons before the King, and thus did say, Now swear, my sons, to be true to your King without dismay; Then they knelt and cried, Mother, we'll do as you desire, We willingly will fight on behalf of our noble sire.
Who has been hunted like a felon by night and by day, By foul plotters devising to take his life away; But God will protect him in the midst of the strife, And, mother dear, we'll fight for him during life.
Then the King said, Noble lads, it's you shall follow me, And ye shall be near me by land or sea, And for your loyalty towards me your mother I'll reward; When all on a sudden the tramping of horses was heard.
Then the King heard voices he knew full well, But what had fetched his friends there he couldn't tell; 'Twas Edward his brother and Lord Douglas, with one hundred and fifty men, That had travelled far, to find their King, o'er mountain and glen.
And when they met they conversed on the events of the day, Then the King unto them quickly did say, If we knew where the enemy were, we would work them skaith; Then Lord James said, I'll lead you where they are, by my faith.
Then they marched on the enemy just as the morning broke, To a farm-house where they were lodged, and, with one bold stroke, They, the Scots, rushed in and killed two-thirds of them dead; And such was the life, alas! King Robert the Bruce led!