Chapter 119 No.119

Thin curling in the morning air,

The wreaths of failing smoke declare,

To embers now the brands decayed,

Where the night-watch their fires had made.

They saw, slow rolling on the plain,

Full many a baggage-cart and wain,

And dire artillery's clumsy car,

By sluggish oxen tugged to war;

And there were Borthwick's Sisters Seven