Then into the east they sailed away
    Full ninety days and nine,
  And at the dawn of the hundredth day
    They landed in Palestine.

  Across the yellow desert they wound
    As a shining river might flow,
  The sun it pierced through their helmets’ round
    Like an arrow shot from a bow.

  The desert was still, there breathed no gust,
    All limply the flags were streaming,
  When up to the sky rose a cloud of dust
    Whence lightning of spears was gleaming.

  The desert was thronged, the din grew loud,
    The dust was on every side. 
  And thick as rain from each bursting cloud
    Did the spear-armed Saracens ride.

  Ten thousand lances glittered to right,
    Ten thousand sparkled to left,
  “Allah il Allah!” they shouted to right,
    “Il Allah!” they echoed to left.

  The Douglas drew his bridle rein,
    And still stood earl and knight;
  “By the cross on which our Lord was slain
    ’Twill be a deadly fight!”

  A noble chain his neck embraced
    In golden windings three. 
  The locket to his lips he placed
    And kissed it fervently: 

  “Since thou hast ever gone before,
    O heart, by night and day,
  E’en so today do thou once more
    Precede me in the fray.

  “And now may God this boon bestow,
    As I to thee have been true,
  That I may strike a Christian blow
    Against this heathen crew.”

  He threw his shield o’er his left side,
    Bound on his helm so proud,
  And as to battle he did ride,
    He rose and called aloud: 

  “Who brings this locket back to me
    Be his the day’s renown!”
  Then ’mid the paynims mightily
    He hurled the king’s heart down.

  Each made the cross with his left thumb,
    The right hand held the lance,
  No fear had they though fiends had come
    To check their bold advance.

  A sudden crash, a headlong flight,
    And mad death raging around—­
  But when the sun sank in the sea’s blue light
    From the desert there came no sound.

  For the pride of the east was there laid low
    In the sweep of the death-strewed plain,
  And the sand so red in the afterglow
    Would never be white again.

  Of all the heathen, by God’s good grace
    Not one had escaped that harm,
  Short patience have men of the Scottish race
    And ever a long sword-arm!

  But where had been the fellest strife,
    There lay in the moonlight clear
  The good Earl Douglas, reft of life
    By a hellish heathen spear.

  All cleft and rent was the mail he wore,
    And finished his mortal smart. 
  Yet under his shield he clasped once more
    King Robert Bruce’s heart.

* * * * *

GEORG HERWEGH