dark grave,
And we to the dark-blue sea."

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