As mountain waves, from wasted lands,
Sweep back to ocean blue.

Then did their loss his foemen know;

Their king, their lords, their mightiest low,
They melted from the field as snow,

When streams are swoln and south winds blow,

Dissolves in silent dew.

Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash,

While many a broken band, Disordered through her currents dash,

To gain the Scottish land;

To town and tower, to down and dale,
To tell red Flodden's dismal tale,
And raise the universal wail.
Tradition, legend, tune, and song,
Shall many an age that wail prolong :
Still from the sire the son shall hear
Of the stern strife, and carnage drear,
Of Flodden's fatal field,

Where shivered was fair Scotland's spear,
And broken was her shield.

Day dawns upon the mountain's side : —
There, Scotland! lay thy bravest pride,
Chiefs, knights, and nobles, many a one :
The sad survivors all are gone. ·
View not that corpse mistrustfully,
Defaced and mangled though it be;

Nor to yon Border castle high,
Look northward with upbraiding eye;

Nor cherish hope in vain,

That, journeying far on foreign strand,
The royal pilgrim to his land

May yet return again.

He saw the wreck his rashness wrought;
Reckless of life, he desperate fought,
And fell on Flodden plain :

And well in death his trusty brand,
Firm clenched within his manly hand,

Beseemed the monarch slain.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Hark! 't is ringing down the street; And the archways and the pavement Bear the clang of hurrying feet. News of battle! who hath brought it? News of triumph! who should bring Tidings from our noble army,

Greetings from our gallant King?
All last night we watched the beacons
Blazing on the hills afar,

Each one bearing, as it kindled,
Message of the opened war.

All night long the northern steamers
Shot across the trembling sky:
Fearful lights that never beckon,
Save when kings or heroes die.

News of battle! who hath brought it?
All are thronging to the gate;
“Warder — warder! open quickly!

Man is this a time to wait?

And the heavy gates are opened;

Then a murmur long and loud,
And a cry of fear and wonder

Bursts from out the bending crowd.
For they see in battered harness
Only one hard-stricken man;
And his weary steed is wounded,
And his cheek is pale and wan :
Spearless hangs a bloody banner

In his weak and drooping hand God! can that be Randolph Murray, Captain of the city band?

Round him crush the people, crying, "Tell us all- oh, tell us true! Where are they who went to battle,

Randolph Murray, sworn to you?

Where are they, our brothers

children?

Have they met the English foe?
Why art thou alone, unfollowed?

Is it weal or is it woe?"
Like a corpse the grisly warrior

Looks from out his helm of steel;
But no word he speaks in answer
Only with his armèd heel

Chides his weary steed, and onward

Up the city streets they ride,

Fathers, sisters, mothers, children,

Shrieking, praying, by his side.

"By the God that made thee, Randolph! Tell us what mischance hath come." Then he lifts his riven banner,

And the asker's voice is dumb.

The elders of the city

Have met within their hall

The men whom good King James had charged To watch the tower and wall.

"Your hands are weak with age," he said,
“Your hearts are stout and true ;

So bide ye in the Maiden Town,
While others fight for you.
My trumpet from the Border-side
Shall send a blast so clear,
That all who wait within the gate
That stirring sound may hear.
Or, if it be the will of heaven
That back I never come,
And, if instead of Scottish shouts,
Ye hear the English drum,-

Then let the warning bells ring out,

Then gird you to the fray,

Then man the walls like burghers stout,

And fight while fight you may.