"There waves a standard o'er the brae,
There gleams a highland sword;
Is not yon form the Stewart, say,--
Yon, Scotland's Martial Lord?
Douglas, with Arran's stranger chief,
And Moray's earl, are there;
Whilst drops of blood, for tears of grief,
The coming strife declare.
Oh! red th' autumnal heath-bells blow
Within thy vale, Strathearne;
But redder far, ere long, shall glow
The flowers of Bannockburn!

"Alas! for Edward's warrior pride,
For England's warrior fame;
Alas! that e'er from Thames' fair side
Her gallant lances came!
Lo! where De Bohun smiles in scorn,--
The Bruce, the Bruce is near!
Rash earl, no more thy hunter horn
Shall Malvern's blue hills hear!
Back, Argentine, and thou, De Clare,
To Severn's banks return
Health smiles in rural beauty there,--
Death lours o'er Bannockburn!

"Up, up, De Valence, dream no more
Of Mothven's victor fight--
Thy bark is on a stormier shore,
No star is thine to-night.