High flew the spray above their heads，yet onward still they bore，Midst cheer，and shout，and answering yell，and shot，and cannonroar，“Now，by the Holy Cross！I swear，since earth and seabegan，Was never such a daring deed essay’d by mortal man！”
Thick blew the smoke across the stream，and faster flash‘d the flame：
The water plash’d in hissing jets as ball and bullet came.Yet onward push‘d the Cavaliers all stern and undismay ’d，With thousand armèd foes before，and none behind to aid.
Once，as they near‘d the middle stream，so strong the torrent swept，That scarce that long and living wall their dangerous footing kept.
Then rose a warning cry behind，a joyous shout before：“The current’s strong，the way is long，they‘ll neverreach the shore！
See，see！they stagger in the midst，they waver in their line！
Fire on the madmen！break their ranks，and whelm them in the Rhine！”
Have you seen the tall trees swaying when the blast is sounding shrill，And the whirlwind reels in fury down the gorges of the hill？
How they toss their mighty branches struggling with the tempest’s shock；How they keep their place of vantage，cleaving firmly to the rock？
Even so the Scottish warriors held their own against the river；Though the water flashed around them，not an eye was seen to quiver；Though the shot flew sharp and deadly，not a man relax‘d his hold；For their hearts were big and thrilling with the mighty thoughts of old.
One word was spoke among them，and through the ranks it spread，“Remember our dead Claverhouse！”was all theCaptain said.
Then，sternly bending forward，they wrestled on a whileUntil they clear’d the heavy stream，then rush‘d toward the isle.
The German heart is stout and true，the German arm is strong；The German foot goes seldom back where armed foemen throng.
But never had they faced in field so stern a charge before，And never had they felt the sweep of Scotland’s broad claymore.
Not fiercer pours the avalanche adown the steep incline，That rises o‘er the parent springs of rough and rapidRhine，Scarce swifter shoots the bolt from heaven than came the Scottish bandRight up against the guarded trench，and o’er it sword in hand.
In vain their leaders forward press，they meet the deadly brand！
O lonely island of the Rhine，where seed was never sown，What harvest lay upon thy sands，by those strong reapers thrown？
What saw the winter moon that night，as，struggling through the rain，She pour‘d a wan and fitful light on marsh，and stream，and plain？
A dreary spot with corpses strewn，and bayonets glistening round；A broken bridge，a stranded boat，a bare and batter’d mound；And one huge watchfire‘s kindled pile，that sent its quivering glareTo tell the leaders of the host the conquering Scots were there.
And did they twine the laurelwreath for those who fought so well？
And did they honour those who liv’d，and weep for those who fell？
What meed of thanks was given to them let aged annals tell.
Why should they bring the laurelwreath，why crown the cup with wine？
It was not Frenchmen‘s blood that flow’d so freely on the Rhine，A stranger band of beggar‘d men had done the venturousdeed：
The glory was to France alone，the danger was their meed.
And what cared they for idle thanks from foreign prince and peer？
What virtue had such honey’d words the exiled heart to cheer？
What matter‘d it that men should vaunt and loud and fondly swear，That higher feat of chivalry was never wrought elsewhere？
They bore within their breasts the grief that fame can never heal，The deep，unutterable woe which none save exiles feel.
Their hearts were yearning for the land they ne’er might see again，For Scotland‘s high and heather’d hills，for mountains，loch，and glenFor those who haply lay at rest beyond the distant sea，Beneath the green and daisied turf where they would gladly be！
Long years went by.The lonely isle in Rhine‘s tempestuous floodHas ta’en another name from those who bought it with their blood：
And，though the legend does not live，for legends lightly dieThe peasant，as he sees the stream in winter rolling by，And foaming o‘er its channelbed between him and the spotWon by the warriors of the sword，still calls that deep and dangerous fordThe Passage of the Scot.
