Glitt❜ring lances are the loom,

Where the dusky warp we ftrain,

Weaving many a Soldier's doom,

Orkney's woe, and Randver's bane,

See the griefly texture grow,

('Tis of human entrails made,)

And the weights, that play below,

Each a gafping Warriour's head.

Shafts for fhuttles, dipt in gore,

Shoot the trembling cords along.

Sword, that once a Monarch bore,

Keep the tiffue close and strong.

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 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 shall stretch

O'er the plenty of the plain.

Low

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 fong.

Scotland, thro' each winding vale

Far and wide the notes prolong.

Sifters, hence with fpurs of speed:

Each her thundering faulchion wield;

Each beftride her fable fteed.

Hurry, hurry to the field.

THE