Several years after Robert the Bruce’s death, on 7 June 1329, the chronicler and poet Walter Bower composed this overblown but moving tribute. As well as likening Bruce to the greatest names of biblical and mythological history, he also recorded his signal achievements, among them his victory at the Battle of Bannockburn, his defeat of Edward II at Byland, and the shortlived peace treaty of Edinburgh in 1328.
Robert Bruce, the nation’s virtue, lies in the earth;
Bold and righteous prince of joy, in all his ways most sure.
A Paris he was in shapeliness, a Hector renowned for his sword,
Royal rose of soldiery, a Socrates, Maro or Cato in his words.
[…]
Lamenting the loss of the royal rights of Scots-born men,
postponing idle pleasures, he left his old sweet life for a bitter regimen.
Cold he suffered, and for sleep he lay in dens of wild beasts,
while for his food he did not refuse the fruit of acorn-laden trees.
[…]
For the protection of his rights he placed his only hope in Christ,
hiding himself in the thorny bush, drinking water, never wines.
With his strong comrades in the assault, he seemed a fierce wild boar,
And thus he earned his royal throne, wore down the enemy’s spear.
At this man’s warrior-thrust a host of evil-doers falls;
on their iron-armoured backs of men his wounds are cruel.
He sharpens the weapons of war, sword raging at a host of knights:
this one falls, that one dies, and their king is put to flight.
In good order the king of Scots brings his standard forth,
fighting mightily he bears it through a thick-packed host.
To boundless praise he triumphs mightily over the foe,
and sent him homewards, the English king, as our new lyric goes.
When he is made lord of Byland, joyful victory is prepared,
The host in flight is ravaged, and the slaughter multiplied.
A solemn truce is covenanted, but the peace agreed is false.
After the death of the reverend king, peace suffers a reverse.
O what grief among the people! Alas, our grief is doubled.
Every eye is given to weeping while disorder multiplies.
He who in the royal roll was counted flower of kings,
now in a muddy little place is laid as food for worms.
This outstanding king was like a bracelet on our arms
A previous ring or a jewel in the ear of noble men,
A twisted torque which folk may wear around their throats –
Now he lies below, stripped of towering glory’s robes.