“Now Jesu help thee,” said Lord James, “Thou kind and true Saint Clair! An’ if I may not bring thee off, I’ll die beside thee there!”
Then in his stirrups up he stood, So lionlike and bold, And held the precious Heart aloft All in its case of gold.
He flung it from him, far ahead, And never spake he more, But--“Pass thee first, thou dauntless Heart, As thou wert wont of yore!”
The roar of fight rose fiercer yet, And heavier still the stour, Till the spears of Spain came shivering in, And swept away the Moor.
“Now praised be God, the day is won! They fly o’er flood and fell-- Why dost thou draw the rein so hard, Good Knight, that fought so well?”
“Oh, ride ye on, Lord King!” he said, “And leave the dead to me, For I must keep the dreariest watch That ever I shall dree!
“There lies, above his master’s Heart, The Douglas, stark and grim; And woe is me I should be here, Not side by side with him!”
The King he lighted from his horse, He flung his brand away, And took the Douglas by the hand, So stately as he lay.
“God give thee rest, thou valiant soul! That fought so well for Spain; I’d rather half my land were gone, So thou wert here again!”
We bore the good Lord James away, And the priceless Heart we bore, And heavily we steered our ship Towards the Scottish shore.
No welcome greeted our return, Nor clang of martial tread, But all were dumb and hushed as death Before the mighty dead.
We laid our chief in Douglas Kirk, The Heart in fair Melrose; And woeful men were we that day-- God grant their souls repose!
_William Edmondstoune Aytoun. (Condensed)_
Up the streets of Aberdeen, By the kirk and college green, Rode the Laird of Ury; Close behind him, close beside, Foul of mouth and evil-eyed, Pressed the mob in fury.
Flouted him the drunken churl, Jeered at him the serving-girl, Prompt to please her master; And the begging carlin, late Fed and clothed at Ury’s gate, Cursed him as he passed her.
Yet, with calm and stately mien, Up the streets of Aberdeen Came he slowly riding; And, to all he saw and heard, Answering not with bitter word, Turning not for chiding.
Came a troop with broadswords swinging, Bits and bridles sharply ringing, Loose and free and froward; Quoth the foremost, “Ride him down! Push him! prick him! through the town Drive the Quaker coward!”