But as they left the dark'ning heath,
More desperate grew the strife of death.
The English shafts in volleys hail'd,
In headlong charge their horse assail'd;
Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep
To break the Scottish circle deep,

That fought around their King.

But yet, though thick the shafts as snow,
Though charging knights like whirlwinds go,
Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow,
Unbroken was the ring;

The stubborn spear-men still made good
Their dark impenetrable wood,

Each stepping where his comrade stood,
The instant that he fell.

No thought was there of dastard flight;
Link'd in the serried phalanx tight,
Groom fought like noble, squire like knight,
As fearlessly and well;

Till utter darkness closed her wing
O'er their thin host and wounded King.
Then skilful Surrey's sage commands

Led back from strife his shatter'd bands;
And from the charge they drew,

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,

Disorder'd, 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 shiver'd was fair Scotland's spear,
And broken was her shield.

EDINBURGH AFTER FLODDEN

WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN

THE death of James IV. left Scotland a prey to all the dangers of a long minority. His son, James V., was hardly a twelvemonth old. When but thirty years of age he died, leaving an infant daughter, Mary Stuart, sole heir to the throne.

Hark! 'tis 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 streamers
Shot across the trembling sky:
Fearful lights, that never beckon
Save when kings or heroes die.

II

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 handGod! can that be Randolph Murray, Captain of the city band?

III

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 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.
'Twere better that in fiery flame
The roofs should thunder down,
Than that the foot of foreign foe
Should trample in the town!"

V

Then in came Randolph Murray, -
His step was slow and weak,
And, as he doffed his dinted helm,
The tears ran down his cheek:
They fell upon his corslet

And on his mailèd hand,

As he gazed around him wistfully,
Leaning sorely on his brand.
And none who then beheld him

But straight were smote with fear,
For a bolder and a sterner man
Had never couched a spear.
They knew so sad a messenger

Some ghastly news must bring;