There fell a war in a woody place,

   Lay far across the sea,

A war of the march in the mirk midnight

   And the shot from behind the tree,

The shaven head and the painted face,

   The silent foot in the wood,

In a land of a strange, outlandish tongue

   That was hard to be understood.

It fell about the gloaming

   The general stood with his staff,

He stood and he looked east and west

   With little mind to laugh.

“Far have I been and much have I seen,

   And kent both gain and loss,

But here we have woods on every hand

   And a kittle water to cross.

Far have I been and much have I seen,

   But never the beat of this;

And there’s one must go down to that waterside

   To see how deep it is.”

It fell in the dusk of the night

   When unco things betide,

The skilly captain, the Cameron,

   Went down to that waterside.

Canny and soft the captain went;

   And a man of the woody land,

With the shaven head and the painted face,

   Went down at his right hand.

It fell in the quiet night,

   There was never a sound to ken;

But all of the woods to the right and the left

   Lay filled with the painted men.

“Far have I been and much have I seen,

   Both as a man and boy,

But never have I set forth a foot

   On so perilous an employ.”

It fell in the dusk of the night

   When unco things betide,

That he was aware of a captain-man

   Drew near to the waterside.

He was aware of his coming

   Down in the gloaming alone;

And he looked in the face of the man

   And lo! the face was his own.

“This is my weird,” he said,

   “And now I ken the worst;

For many shall fall the morn,

   But I shall fall with the first.

O, you of the outland tongue,

   You of the painted face,

This is the place of my death;

   Can you tell me the name of the place?”

“Since the Frenchmen have been here

   They have called it Sault-Marie;

But that is a name for priests,

   And not for you and me.

It went by another word,”

   Quoth he of the shaven head:

“It was called Ticonderoga

   In the days of the great dead.”

And it fell on the morrow’s morning,

   In the fiercest of the fight,

That the Cameron bit the dust

   As he foretold at night;

And far from the hills of heather

   Far from the isles of the sea,

He sleeps in the place of the name

   As it was doomed to be.