I.
With six defeats half mad,
The hunted Bruce in his lair
At Rachrin's Isle, all sullen and sad,
Lion-like brooded there:
'And must I yield me to shame,
Humbling my crown to the foe?
Shall English Edward soar in his fame
With Scotland's Bruce laid low?
Alas! that the Red Comyn bled
Beneath my dagger's blow,--
Yes, yes; my guilt, O thou Great Dead,
Must pay for it, woe for woe,--
And Holy Land, in dear Scotia's stead,
To the fallen Bruce be a funeral bed,--
Ah me! that it must be so!'

II.
It was a peasant's cot,
With rafters rotten and old,
And the Bruce lay there, but he heeded not
That his canopy was not gold:
And, as he mused in his watch,
He noted, half in a dream,
A spider swinging under the thatch,
Swaying from beam to beam:
Six times in its aim it fail'd,--
A seventh -- and lo! the poor imp has prevail'd
Through stout perseverance in right;
And the Bruce leapt up at the humble sight,
And the fortunate omen hail'd,
And straightway shouted, eager for fight,
'Once more,-- once more, for me --'
And onward he march'd in his royal might
Till the land of his love was free!

III.
And so, faint wrestler of life,
Many times foil'd and thrown,
If thou wouldst stand like a man in the strife
Where each must struggle alone,
Remember this word, 'Once more,'
Be it seve, or seven times seven;
Knock yet again at The Father's door;
Energy makes all Victory sure,--
Away with the faithless leaven!
Onward, upward, never give in!
'Once more' is ever the watchword to win
The crowns of Earth and Heaven!