“Oh, Isabel, my strength does fail,
And the top we have not won!"
"Oh, Willie, dear! one struggle mair,
Ere strength and hope are gone!"
He clenched his teeth, and drew hard his breath,
Like a man to win or die;
Then did he rush o'er scaur and bush,
And gained the mountain high.
He gained the saugh-tree, and he placed
Fair Isabel on a stone,
And forward fell upon his face
Wi' a deep and heavy groan.
Borthwick, the youth raised in his arms,
"He'll come round when he's nursed;"
But the blood came o'er poor Willie's lips,
For his very heart had burst.
There's a green grave on North Berwick Law, And a maniac comes and sings,
And with the burden of her song
The valley 'neath her rings.
"Love gave him strength, Love gave him speed,"
So sings this mad damsel;
"Never a love was yet so fair,
But fortune it was fell!"
A hunter ranged, one early morn,
The top of Berwick Law;
Wi' her cauld cheek on a caulder stone,
That fair maiden he saw.
THE great battle of Flodden was fought upon the 9th of September, 1513. The whole strength of the kingdom, both Lowland and Highland, was assembled, under James IV., and the defeat of his army was the most disastrous of any in the history of the Northern Wars. No event in Scottish history ever took a more lasting hold of the public mind than the "woful fight" of Flodden; and, even now, the songs and traditions which are current on the Border, recall the memory of the contest unsullied by disgrace, though terminating in disaster and defeat.
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 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 beacon
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 armed 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 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 mailed hand,
And 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;
And all of them were fathers,
And their sons were with the King.
And up then rose the Provost
A brave old man was he,
Of ancient name and knightly fame,
And chivalrous degree.
Oh! woful now was the old man's look,
And he spake right heavily-
"Now, Randolph, tell thy tidings,
However sharp they be!
Woe is written on thy visage,
Death is looking from thy face; Speak! though it be of overthrowIt cannot be disgrace!"
Right bitter was the agony
That wrung that soldier proud; Thrice did he strive to answer, And thrice he groaned 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 unconquered,
With their faces to the foe.
Sirs! I charge you keep it holy,
Keep it as a sacred thing,
For the stain you see upon it
Was the life-blood of your King!"
Woe, 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 hath fallen,
O great God, King James is gone!
Holy Mother Mary, shield us,
Thou who erst didst love 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!
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