“A Dead Douglas”

When the great Chieftain falls, the clans must weep!
     To-day their banners flame on all the hills,
     And, far or near, their solemn glory fills
Valley and glen the while he lies asleep.
The pibroch does not waken him; the deep,
     Wild slogan now his heart no longer thrills,
     Nor the loud summons when a Nation wills
Its chosen Lord with it the tryst shall keep!
Yea, clansmen, bear him to his sacred rest,
     With muffled drums and trumpets breathing low;
     There is no stain upon his spotless shield
Nor on his hands close folded on his breast!
     Yet take ye courage, for full well ye know
     How “A Dead Douglas surely wins the field!”