O’er Roslin all that dreary night
A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam;
’Twas broader than the watch-fire’s light,
And redder than the bright moonbeam.
It glar’d on Roslin’s castled rock,
It ruddied all the copse wood glen;
’Twas seen from Dryden’s groves of oak
And seen from cavern’d Hawthorn-den.
Seem’d all on fire that chapel proud,
Where Roslin’s chiefs uncoffin’d lie,
Each Baron, for a sable shroud,
Sheath’d in his iron panoply.
Seem’d all on fire within, around,
Deep sacristy and altar’s pale;
Shone every pillar foliage bound,
And glimmer’d all the dead men’s mail.
Blaz’d battlement and pinnet high,
Blaz’d every rose-carved buttress fair–
So still they blaze when fate is nigh
The lordly line of high St. Clair.