16
But in midst o’ toils and dangers,
Wi’ the cauld ground for his bed,
Compassed round wi’ faes and strangers.
Soon Will’s dreams o’ fancy fled.
Led to battle’s blood-dyed banners,
Waving to the widow’s moan,
Will saw glory’s boasted honours
End in life’s expiring groan!
Bound Valenciennes’ strong-wa’d city.
Thick owre Dunkirk’s fatal plain,
Will, though dauntless, saw wi’ pity
Britain’s valiant sons lie slain.
Fired by freedom’s burning fever,
Gallia struck death’s slaughtering knell;
Frae the Scheldt to Rhine’s deep river
Britons fought—but Britons fell!
In the throng o’ comrades deeing,
Fighting foremost o’ them a’,
Swift fate’s winged ball cam’ fleeing,
And took Willie’s leg awa’:
Thrice frae aff the ground he started,
Thrice to stand he strave in vain;
Thrice, as fainting strength departed,
Sighed, and sank ’mang hundreds slain.
On a cart wi’ comrades bleeding,
Stiff wi’ gore, and cauld as clay,
Without cover, bed, or bedding,
Five lang nights Will Gairlace lay.
In a sick-house, damp and narrow
(Left behind wi’ mony mair),
See Will next, in pain and sorrow,
Wasting on a bed o’ care.
