And the verdure shall creep to the moldering wall
And the sunshine shall sleep in the desolate hall
And the foot of the pilgrim shall find to the last
Some fragrance of home, at this shrine of the Past.
LOYAL
The Douglas in the days of old The gentle minstrels sing, Wore at his heart, incased in gold, The heart of Bruce, his king. Through Paynim lands to Palestine, Befall what peril might, To lay that heart on Christ, his shrine, His knightly word he plight. A weary way, by night and day, Of vigil and of fight, Where never rescue came by day Nor ever rest by night. And one by one the valiant spears, They faltered from his side; And one by one his heavy tears Fell for the Bruce who died. All fierce and black, around his track, He saw the combat close, And counted but a single sword Against uncounted foes.
