Barren and man deserted,
Where the forest reconquers the farmstead,
And the meadow succumbs to the moor."

(The stamp of his race was on his face,
As he stood there, stark and stern:
He spoke and I heard :

But my fancy ran, far past the man,
To the clans at Bannockburn.)

"Time was and I mind it well, sir

When yon braes were dotted thick
With herds of kye and sheep, sir,

And many a cotter's rick;
But the laird o' the land dwelt otherwhere,

And the rents were racked and short,
So the land was sold to a millionaire

Who coveted it for sport, "
" If the braes be all for the huntsman's call,
And the fallows won for the hound and gun,

Why tarry here, O landless one?"

"I was born in a crofter's cot, sir,

Not far frae where we stand,
And every year I gae m' way

Back to the bit o' land;
And I sit b' the road and remember,

Where I played as a bairn alone;
Then I look for the housie, and find there

Just a crumblin' cairn o' stone.

"They call me a tramp, and I am, sir,

And a thief when I needs maun be,
Since to beg at best and steal at worse

Is the trade that is left to me;
For the honest work I ken, sir

The toil of the croft and the mere
Was taen when they ousted the crofters

To re-forest the land for deer."

I saw a million lackeys,

In the pomp of a liveried land,

Smug with the scorn of the flunkey
For the grime of a callous hand.

And my thought made bold to a question ;
"What manner of brood is here?
Servile and supple and slavish,
Stealthy and subtle and knavish ;
Helotry feathered of peacocks,
To grace us at board and at bier."

(The eyes that I turned to clouded
With a bitterness that crowded
Into the answer I heard.)

"These are men of our manufacture,
Branded as national ware;

Whatever they be, we made them,
Whatever their shame we share;
Yet their sires were English yeoman,
Who measured with mates or foemen,
For these are the issue of men who stood
Shoulder to shoulder with Robin Hood."

I saw a million starvelings,

In the streets of a hundred towns,
And a million sotted fingers

That clutched at the draught that drowns.

And my doubt made bold to a question :

"What manner of men be these?

Stunted and meagre and craven,

Brutal and rum-enslaven,
Abasing themselves to the stranger,
And whining their mendicant pleas."

(The eyes that were on me glittered
With the flash of a thought embittered,
And the voice spoke as before,)

"These are men of our manufacture,

Branded as national ware;
Whatever they be, we made them,

Whatever their shame we share :
Yet their sires were English bowmen,
An 'tis an evil omen

That such are the heirs of the men who bore
The brunt of the burden at Agincourt."