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Glitt'ring lances are the loom,

Where the dusky warp we strain, Weaving many a Soidier's doom,

Orkney's woe, and Randver's bane.

See the grisly texture grow,

('Tis of human entrails made,) And the weights, that play below,

Each a gasping Warriour's head.

Shafts for shuttles, dipt in gore,

Shoot the trembling cords along. Sword, that once a Monarch bore,

Keeps the tissue close and Arong.

Mifta black, terrific Maid,

Sangrida, and Hilda see,
Join the wayward work to aid:

'Tis the woof of victory.


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, spread

O'er the youthful King your shield,

We the reins to flaughter give,

Ours to kill, and ours to spare ; Spite of danger, he shall live,

(Weave the crimfon web of war.)

They, They, whom once the desart-beach

Pent within its bleak domain,

Soon their ample fway shall stretch

O'er the Plenty of the Plain.

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Horror covers all the heath,

Clouds of carnage blot the fun.

Sisters weave the web of death;

Sifters, cease, 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'lt 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 bestride her sable steed,

Hurry, hurry to the field.

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