O who is he, with locks of grey, That bids the pressing crowds recede, As backward rolls the ocean’s spray, Where canvas-crowned galleys glide? A scallop-shell the stranger wears, St Peter’s keys in red he bears Wrought in his scapular; The Pictish lances rattling sound, And far the waving pennons float, The bishop’s palfreys paw the ground, And startle at the war-horn’s note, While mingling voices loud exclaim, “Ho! pilgrim, with your cross of flame! “Come ye for peace or war? “Or why upon our march intrude, “In humble guise, but forward mood.”—