Glitt'ring lances are the loom,
Where the dusky warp we ftrain,
Weaving many a Soidier's doom,
Orkney's woe, and Randver's bane.

See the grifly texture grow,

('Tis of human entrails made,)

+

And the weights, that play below,
Each a gasping Warriour's head.

Shafts for fhuttles, dipt in gore,

Shoot the trembling cords along. Sword, that once a Monarch bore, Keeps the tiffue close and ftrong.

Mifta black, terrific Maid,
Sangrida, and Hilda fee,

Join the wayward work to aid :

'Tis the woof of victory.

Ere

Ere the ruddy fun be fet,

Pikes must shiver, javelins fing,

Blade with clattering buckler meet,"
Hauberk crash, and helmet ring.

(Weave the crimson web of war)

Let us go, and let us fly,
Where our Friends the conflict share,
Where they triumph, where they die. }

As the paths of fate we tread,

Wading thro' th' enfanguin'd field : Gondula, and Geira, fpread

O'er the youthful King your fhield,

We the reins to flaughter give,
Ours to kill, and ours to fpare:
Spite of danger, he shall live,

(Weave the crimson web of war.)

They, whom once the defart-beach

Pent within its bleak domain, Soon their ample sway fhall stretch O'er the Plenty of the Plain.

Low the dauntlefs Earl is laid,

Gor'd with many a gaping wound;

Fate demands a nobler head ;

Soon a King fhall bite the ground.

Long his lofs fhall Eirin weep,

Ne'er again his likeness fee Long her strains in forrow steep, Strains of Immortality!

Horror covers all the heath,
Clouds of carnage blot the fun.

Sifters weave the web of death;

Sifters, ceafe, the work is done.

Hail the task, and hail the hands !

Songs of joy and triumph, fing! Joy to the victorious bands; Triumph to the younger King.

Mortal, thou that hear'ft the tale,
Learn the tenour of our Song.
Scotland, thro' each winding vale
Far and wide the notes prolong.

Sifters, hence with spurs of speed :

Each her thundering faulchion wield;

Each beftride her fable fteed,

Hurry, hurry to the field.

JOHN

Bibl
Bodl.

JOHNSON