'Their light-armed archers far and near Surveyed the tangled ground, Their centre ranks, with pike and spear, A twilight forest frowned, Their barded horsemen in the rear The stern battalia crowned.

No cymbal clashed, no clarion rang, Still were the pipe and drum;Save heavy tread, and armor's clang, The sullen march was dumb.

There breathed no wind their crests to shake, Or wave their flags abroad;Scarce the frail aspen seemed to quake That shadowed o'er their road.

Their vaward scouts no tidings bring, Can rouse no lurking foe, Nor spy a trace of living thing, Save when they stirred the roe;The host moves like a deep-sea wave, Where rise no rocks its pride to brave High-swelling, dark, and slow.

The lake is passed, and now they gain A narrow and a broken plain, Before the Trosachs' rugged jaws;And here the horse and spearmen pause While, to explore the dangerous glen Dive through the pass the archer-men.