With stout Erle Percy, there was slaine
Sir John of Egerton,

Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John,
Sir James that bold barrón;

And with Sir George and stout Sir James,
Both knights of good account,
Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slaine,
Whose prowesse did surmount.

For Witherington needs must I wayle
As one in doleful dumpes,
For when his legs were smitten off,

He fought upon his stumpes.

And with Erle Douglas, there was slaine Sir Hugh Mountgomerye,

Sir Charles Murray, that from the feeld One foote wold never flee.

Sir Charles Murray, of Ratcliff, too,
His sisters sonne was hee;
Sir David Lamb, so well esteem'd,
Yet saved cold not bee.

And the Lord Maxwell in like case

Did with Erle Douglas dye; Of twenty hundred Scottish speres, Scarce fifty-five did flye.

Of fifteen hundred Englishmen,
Went home but fifty-three;
The rest were slaine in Chevy-Chace,
Under the greene woode tree.

Next day did many widowes come,

Their husbands to bewayle; They washt their wounds in brinish teares, But all wold not prevayle.

Theyr bodies, bathed in purple gore,

They bare with them away, They kist them dead a thousand times,

Ere they were cladd in clay.

The newes was brought to Eddenborrow,
Where Scotlands king did raigne,
That brave Erle Douglas suddenlye
Was with an arrow slaine.

O heavy newes, King James did say,
Scotland may witnesse bee,

I have not any captaine more
Of such account as hee.

Like tydings to King Henry came,
Within as short a space,

That Percy of Northumberland
Was slaine in Chevy-Chace.

Now God be with him, said our king,
Sith it will noe better bee;

I trust I have within my realme
Five hundred as good as he;

Yett shall not Scotts nor Scotland say,
But I will vengeance take;
Ile be revengèd on them all,

For brave Erle Percyes sake.

This vow full well the king perform'd
After, at Humbledowne;

In one day fifty knights were slayne,
With lords of great renowne;

And of the rest, of small account,
Did many thousands dye;
Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chace,
Made by the Erle Percye.

God save our king, and bless this land
With plentye, joy, and peace;
And grant henceforth, that foule debate
"Twixt noblemen may cease.

AUTHOR UNKNOWN.

EDINBURGH AFTER FLODDEN. NEWS of battle!-news of battle! 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 watch'd the beacons
Blazing on the hills afar,

Each one bearing, as it kindled,
Message of the open'd war,
All night long the northern streamers
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 ?"

Right bitter was the agony

That wrung that soldier proud:
Thrice did he strive to answer,

And thrice he groan'd aloud.
Then he gave the riven banner
To the old man's shaking hand,
Saying, "That is all I bring ye

From the bravest of the land!

Ay! ye may look upon it

It was guarded well and long By your brothers and your children,

By the valiant and the strong. One by one they fell around it,

As the archers laid them low, Grimly dying, still unconquer'd, With their faces to the foe. Ay, ye may well look upon it

There is more than honor there, Else, be sure, I had not brought it From the field of dark despair. Never yet was royal banner

Steep'd in such a costly dye;
It hath lain upon a bosom

Where no other shroud shall lie.
Sirs, I charge you, keep it holy;
Keep it as a sacred thing,
For the stain ye see upon it

Was the life-blood of your King!"

Woe, and woe, and lamentation!

What a piteous cry was there!
Widows, maidens, mothers, children,
Shrieking, sobbing in despair!
Through the streets the death-word rushes,
Spreading terror, sweeping on-
"Jesu Christ! our King has fallen-
O Great God, King James is gone!
Holy Mother Mary, shield us,

Thou who erst didst lose thy Son!
O the blackest day for Scotland
That she ever knew before!
O our King-the good, the noble,
Shall we see him never more?
Woe to us, and woe to Scotland!

O our sons, our sons and men !
Surely some have 'scaped the Southron,
Surely some will come again!"
Till the oak that fell last winter
Shall uprear its shatter'd stem—
Wives and mothers of Dunedin-
Ye may look in vain for them!

But within the Council Chamber
All was silent as the grave,
Whilst the tempest of their sorrow
Shook the bosoms of the brave.
Well indeed might they be shaken
With the weight of such a blow:
He was gone their prince, their idol,
Whom they loved and worshipp'd so!
Like a knell of death and judgment
Rung from heaven by angel hand,
Fell the words of desolation

On the elders of the land.
Hoary heads were bow'd and trembling,
Wither'd hands were clasp'd and wrung:
God had left the old and feeble,

He had ta'en away the young.

Then the Provost he uprose,

And his lip was ashen white; But a flush was on his brow,

And his eye was full of light. "Thou hast spoken, Randolph Murray, Like a soldier stout and true; Thou hast done a deed of daring

Had been perill'd but by few. For thou hast not shamed to face us, Nor to speak thy ghastly tale, Standing-thou a knight and captainHere, alive within thy mail! Now, as my God shall judge me,

I hold it braver done,

Than hadst thou tarried in thy place,

And died above my son!

Thou needst not tell it: he is dead.

God help us all this day!
But speak-how fought the citizens
Within the furious fray?
For, by the might of Mary!

"Twere something still to tell
That no Scottish foot went backward
When the Royal Lion fell!"

"No one fail'd him! He is keeping
Royal state and semblance still;
Knight and noble lie around him,
Cold on Flodden's fatal hill.
Of the brave and gallant-hearted,
Whom ye sent with prayers away,
Not a single man departed
From his Monarch yesterday.

Had you seen them, O my masters!
When the night began to fall,
And the English spearmen gather'd
Round a grim and ghastly wall!
As the wolves in winter circle

Round the leaguer on the heath,
So the greedy foe glared upward,
Panting still for blood and death.
But a rampart rose before them,
Which the boldest dare not scale;
Every stone a Scottish body,

Every step a corpse in mail!
And behind it lay our Monarch,
Clenching still his shiver'd sword;
By his side Montrose and Athole,

At his feet a Southron lord.
All so thick they lay together,

When the stars lit up the sky,
That I knew not who were stricken,

Or who yet remain'd to die.
Few there were when Surrey halted,
And his wearied host withdrew;
None but dying men around me,

When the English trumpet blew.
Then I stoop'd and took the banner,
As you see it, from his breast,
And I closed our hero's eyelids,

And I left him to his rest.

In the mountains growl'd the thunder,
As I leap'd the woeful wall,
And the heavy clouds were settling
Over Flodden, like a pall."

Cared not any answer then; Sitting silent, dumb with sorrow,

Sitting anguish-struck, like men
Who have seen the roaring torrent
Sweep their happy homes away,
And yet linger by the margin,

Staring wildly on the spray.
But, without, the maddening tumult
Waxes ever more and more,
And the crowd of wailing women
Gather round the council-door.
Every dusky spire is ringing

With a dull and hollow knell,

And the Miserere's singing

To the tolling of the bell. Through the streets the burghers hurry, Spreading terror as they go;

20

And the rampart's throng'd with watchers
For the coming of the foe.
From each mountain-top a pillar
Streams into the torpid air,
Bearing token from the Border

That the English host is there.
All without is flight and terror,

All within is woe and fearGod protect thee, Maiden City, For thy latest hour is near!

No! not yet, thou high Dunedin!
Shalt thou totter to thy fall;
Though thy bravest and thy strongest
Are not there to man the wall.
No, not yet! the ancient spirit
Of our fathers hath not gone;
Take it to thee as a buckler

Better far than steel or stone.
Oh, remember those who perish'd
For thy birthright at the time
When to be a Scot was treason,

And to side with Wallace crime! Have they not a voice among us, Whilst their hallow'd dust is here? Hear ye not a summons sounding

From each buried warrior's bier? Up!-they say-and keep the freedom Which we won you long ago: Up! and keep our graves unsullied From the insults of the foe! Up! and if ye cannot save them, Come to us in blood and fire: Midst the crash of falling turrets Let the last of Scots expire!

Still the bells are tolling fiercely,
And the cry comes louder in;
Mothers wailing for their children,
Sisters for their slaughter'd kin.
All is terror and disorder;

Till the Provost rises up,
Calm as though he had not tasted
Of the fell and bitter cup.
All so stately from his sorrow,
Rose the old undaunted chief,
That
you had not deem'd, to see him,
His was more than common grief.
"Rouse ye, sirs!" he said; we may not
Longer mourn for what is done;
If our King be taken from us,

66

We are left to guard his son.

We have sworn to keep the city
From the foe, whate'er they be,
And the oath that we have taken
Never shall be broke by me.
Death is nearer to us, brethren,

Than it seem'd to those who died,
Fighting yesterday at Flodden,

By their lord and master's side. Let us meet it, then, in patience,

Not in terror or in fear; Though our hearts are bleeding yonder,

Let our souls be steadfast here.
Up, and rouse ye! Time is fleeting,

And we yet have much to do;
Up! and haste ye through the city,
Stir the burghers stout and true!
Gather all our scatter'd people,

Fling the banner out once more,-
Randolph Murray! do thou bear it,
As it erst was borne before:
Never Scottish heart will leave it,
When they see their Monarch's gore!
"Let them cease that dismal knelling!
It is time enough to ring
When the fortress-strength of Scotland
Stoops to ruin like its King.
Let the bells be kept for warning,

Not for terror or alarm;

When they next are heard to thunder,
Let each man and stripling arm.
Bid the women leave their wailing-
Do they think that woeful strain,
From the bloody heaps of Flodden

Can redeem their dearest slain?
Bid them cease, or rather hasten
To the churches every one;
There to pray to Mary Mother,
And to her anointed Son,
That the thunderbolt above us
May not fall in ruin yet;
That in fire and blood and rapine

Scotland's glory may not set.
Let them pray,-for never women

Stood in need of such a prayer!— England's yeomen shall not find them Clinging to the altars there. No! if we are doom'd to perish, Man and maiden, let us fall, And a common gulf of ruin

Open wide to whelm us all! Never shall the ruthless spoiler Lay his hot insulting hand

On the sisters of our heroes,

Whilst we bear a torch or brand!
Up! and rouse ye, then, my brothers,-
But when next ye hear the bell
Sounding forth the sullen summons
That may be our funeral knell,
Once more let us meet together,

Once more see each other's face:
Then, like men that need not tremble,
Go to our appointed place.
God, our Father, will not fail us
In that last tremendous hour-
If all other bulwarks crumble,

He will be our strength and tower:
Though the ramparts rock beneath us,
And the walls go crashing down,
Though the roar of conflagration

Bellow o'er the sinking town; There is yet one place of shelter,

Where the foeman cannot come, Where the summons never sounded Of the trumpet or the drum. There again we'll meet our children, Who, on Flodden's trampled sod, For their king and for their country Render'd up their souls to God. There shall we find rest and refuge, With our dear departed brave; And the ashes of the city

Be our universal grave!"

WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN.

THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.

I'VE. heard them lilting at our ewe-milking,

Lasses a' lilting before dawn o' day; But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning

The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede

away.

At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads. are scorning,

Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae; Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing,

Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away.

In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now

are jeering, Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray;