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. But oh! how changed since yon blithe

night! Gladly I turn me from the sight Unto iny tale again.

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 whirl.

winds go, Though billmen ply the ghastly blow,

Unbroken was the ring ; The stubborn spearmen 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; Linked 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 shattered 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 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 bear Of the stern strife and carnage drear

Of Flodden's fatal field, Where shivered was fair Scotland's spear

And broken was her shield !

Short is my tale :--Fitz-Eustace' care
A pierced and mangled body bare
To moated Lichfield's lofty pile ;
And there, beneath the southern aisle
A tomb with Gothic sculpture fair
Did long Lord Marmion's image bear. -
Now vainly for its site you look;
'T was levelled when fanatic Brook
The fair cathedral stormed and took,
But, thanks to Heaven and good Saint

Chad,
A guerdon meet the spoiler had -
There erst was martial Marmion found,
His feet upon a couchant hound,

His hands to heaven upraised; And all around, on scutcheon rich, And tablet carved, and fretted niche,

His arms and feats were blazed. And yet, though all was carved so fair, And priests for Marmion breathed the

prayer, The last Lord Marmion lay not there. From Ettrick woods a peasant swain Followed his lord to Flodden plain,One of those flowers whom plaintive lay In Scotland mourns as “ wede away : Sore wounded, Sibyl's Cross he spied, And dragged him to its foot, and died Close by the noble Marmion's side, The spoilers stripped and gashed the

slain,
And thus their corpses were mista'en ;
And thus in the proud baron's tomb
The lowly woodsman took the room.
Less easy task it were to show
Lord Marmion's nameless grave and low
They dug his grave e'en where he lay,

But every mark is gone :
Time's wasting hand has done away
The simple Cross of Sibyl Grey,

And broke her font of stone ;
But yet from out the little bill
Oozes the slender springlet still.

Oft halts the stranger there.
For thence may best his curious eye
The memorable field descry;

And shepherd boys repair

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,

To seek the water-flag and rush,
And rest them by the hazel bush,

And plait their garlands fair,
Nor dream they sit upon the grave
That holds the bones of Marmion

brave.When thou shalt find the little hill, With thy heart commune and be still. If ever in temptation strong Thou left'st the right path for the

wrong, If every devious step thus trod Still led thee further from the road, Dread thou to speak presumptuous doom On noble Marmion's lowly tomb ; But say, "He died a gallant knight, With sword in hand, for England's

right.” I do not rhyme to that dull elf Who cannot image to himself That all through Flodden's dismal night Wilton was foremost in the fight, That when brave Surrey's steed was

slain 'Twas Wilton mounted him again; 'Twas Wilton's brand that deepest hewed Amid the spearmen's stubborn wood : Unnamed by Holinshed or Hall, He was the living soul of all; That, after fight, his faith made plain, He won his rank and lands again, And charged his old paternal shield, With bearings won on Flodden Field. Nor sing I to that simple maid To whom it must in terms be said That king and kinsmen did agree, To bless fair Clara's constancy ; Who cannot, unless I relate, Paint to her mind the bridal's state,That Wolsey's voice the blessing spoke, More, Sands, and Denny, passed the joke; That bluff King Hal the curtain drew, And Katherine's hand the stocking

threw; And afterwards, for many a day, That it was held enough to say, In blessing to a wedded pair, ** Love they like Wilton and like Clare !” November, 1806---January, 1808.

February 23, 1808. SOLDIER, REST! THY WARFARE

O'ER SOLDIER, rest! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not break-,

ing; Dream of battled fields no more,

Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall,

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, Fairy strains of music fall,

Every sense in slumber dewing. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Dream of fighting fields no more ; Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Morn of toil, nor night of waking. No rude sound shall reach thine ear,

Armor's clang, or war-steed champing, Trump nor pibroch summon here

Mustering clan or squadron tramping. Yet the lark's shrill fife may come

At the day break from the fallow, And the bittern sound his drum,

Booming from the sedgy shallow. Ruder sounds shall none be near, Guards nor warders challenge here, Here's no war-steed's neigh and champ

ing, Shouting clans or squadrons stamping. Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done ;

While our slumbrous spells assail ye, Dream not, with the rising sun,

Bugles here shall sound reveillé. Sleep! the deer is in his den ;

Sleep! thy bounds are by thee lying: Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen

How thy gallant steed lay dying.
Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done ;
Think not of the rising sun,
For at dawning to assail ye
Here no bugles sound reveillé.

From The Lady of the Lake, 1810.

HAIL TO THE CHIEF WHO IN

TRIUMPH ADVANCES!

HAIL to the Chief who in triumph ad.

vances ! Honored and blessed be the ever-green

Pine ! Long may the tree, in his banner that

glances, Flourish, the shelter and grace of our

line !
Heaven send it happy dew,

Earth lend it sap anew,
Gayly to bourgeon and broadly to grow,

While every Highland glen

Sends our shout back again, “ Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho!

ieroe !" Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the

fountain,

Blooming at Beltane, in winter to

fade; When the whirlwind has stripped every

leaf on the mountain, The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in

her shade.
Moored in the rifted rock,

Proof to the tempest's shock, Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow;

Menteith and Breadalbane, then
Echo bis praise again,
Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho!

ieroe! Proudly our pibroch has thrilled in Glen

Fruin, And Bannochar's groans to our slogan

replied : Glen-Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smok

ing in ruin, And the best of Loch Lomond lie

dead on her side.
Widow and Saxon maid
Long shall lament our raid,
Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and

with woe;
Lennox and Leren-glen

Shake when they hear again, “ Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho !

ieroe !"

The hand of the reaper

Takes the ears that are hoary, But the voice of the weeper

Wails manhood in glory. The autumn winds rushing

Waft the leaves that are searest, But our flower was in flushing,

When blighting was nearest. Fleet foot on the correi,

Sage counsel in cumber, Red hand in the foray,

How sound is thy slumber ! Like the dew on the mountain,

Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain, Thou art gone, and forever!

From The Lady of the Lake. HARP OF THE NORTH, FAREWELL!

Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the

Highlands ! Stretch to your oars for the ever-green

Pine ! O that the rosebud that graces yon is

lands Were wreathed in a garland around

him to twine !
O that some seedling gem,
Worthy such noble stem
Honored and blessed in their shadow

might grow !
Loud should Clan-Alpine then

Ring from her deepmost glen, “Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe !

From The Lady of the Lake,

HARP of the North, farewell! The hills

grow dark, On purple peaks a deeper shade de

scending; In twilight copse the glow-worm lights

her spark, The deer, half-seen, are to the covert

wending. Resume thy wizard elm ! the fountain

lending, And the wild breeze, thy wilder min

strelsy ; Thy numbers sweet with nature's vespers

blending, With distant echo from the fold and

lea, And herd-boy's evening pipe, and hum

of housing bee. Yet, once again, farewell, thou Minstrel

Harp ! Yet, once again, forgive my feeble

sway, And little reck I of the censure sharp

May idly cavil at an idle lay. Much have I owed thy strains on life's

long way, Through secret woes the world has

never known, When on the weary night dawned

wearier day, And bitterer was the grief devoured

alone.-That I o'erlive such woes, Enchantress!

is thine own. Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow

retire,

CORONACH

He is gone on the mountain,

He is lost to the forest,
Like a summer-dried fountain,

When our need was the sorest.
The font, reappearing,

From the rain-drops shall borrow, But to us comes no cheering,

To Duncan no morrow !

Some spirit of the Air has waked thy

string! T'is now a seraph bold, with touch of

fire, 'Tis now the brush of Fairy's frolio

wing. Receding now, the dying numbers ring Fainter and fainter down the rugged

dell; And now the mountain breezes scarcely

bring A wandering witch-note of the distant

spellAnd now, 't is silent all !--Enchantress,

fare thee well! Conclusion of The Lady of the Lake.

BRIGNALL BANKS During the composition of Rokeby Scott wrote to Morritt: " There are two or three Songs, and particularly one in Praise of Brignall Banks, which I trust you will like-because, entre nous, I like them myself. One of them is a little dash ing banditti song, called and entitled Allen-a

Yet sung she, “ Brignall banks are fair,

And Greta woods are gay ;
I would I were with Edmund there,

To reign his Queen of May ! “ With burnished brand and musketoon

So gallantly you come,
I read you for a bold dragoon,

That lists the tuck of drum."
I list no more the tuck of drum,

No more the trumpet hear ;
But when the beetle sounds his hum,

My comrades take the spear.
And 0, though Brignall banks be fair,

And Greta woods be gay,
Yet mickle must the maiden dare

Would reign my Queen of May! “Maiden! a nameless life I lead,

A nameless death I'll die: The fiend whose lantern lights the mead

Were better mate than I ! And when I'm with my comrades met

Beneath the greenwood bough, What once we were we all forget,

Nor think what we are now.
Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair,

And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather garlands there
Would grace a summer queen.'

From Rokeby, 1813.

Dale."

O, BRIGNALL banks are wild and fair,

And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather garlands there

Would grace a summer queen.
And as I rode by Dalton-hall,

Beneath the turrets high, A maiden on the castle wall

Was singing merrily : “0, Brignall banks are fresh and fair,

And Greta woods are green;
I'd rather rove with Edmund there

Than reign our English queen." “If, maiden, thou wouldst wend with

me, To leave both tower and town, Thou first must guess what life lead we

That dwell by dale and down. And if thou canst that riddle read,

As read full well you may, Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed,

As blithe as Queen of May.'
Yet sung she, " Brignall banks are fair,

And Greta woods are green;
I'd rather rove with Edmund there

Than reign our English queen.
“I read you, by your bugle horn,

And by your palfrey good,
I read you for a ranger sworn

To keep the king's greenwood.” “ A ranger, lady, winds his horn,

And 't is at peep of light;
His blast is heard at merry morn,
And mine at dead of night."

ALLEN-A-DALE ALLEN-a-Dale has no fagot for burning, Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning, Allen a-Dale has no fleece for the spin.

ning, Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the

winning Come, read me my riddle !come, heark

en my tale! And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale, The Baron of Ravensworth prances in

pride, And he views his domains upon Arkin

dale side. The mere for his net and the land for

Jis game,

The chase for the wild and the park for

the tame : Yet the fish of the lake and the deer of

the vale Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen

a-Dale !

Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight, Though his spur be as sharp and his

blade be as bright;

WASTED, weary, wherefore stay, Wrestling thus with earth and clay? From the body pass away ;

Hark! the mass is singing.

From thee doff thy mortal weed,
Mary Mother be thy speed,
Saints to help thee at thy need ;-

Hark! the knell is ringing.

Fear not snow-drift driving fast,
Sleet or hail or levin blast;
Soon the shroud shall lap thee fast,
And the sleep be on thee cast

That shall ne'er know waking.

The father was steel and the mother

was stone; They lifted the latch and they bade him

be gone; But loud on the morrow their wail and

their cry: He had laughed on the lass with his

bonny black eye, And she fled to the forest to hear a love

tale, And the youth it was told by was Allena-dale !

From Rokeby, 1813. HIE AWAY, HIE AWAY HiE away, hie away,

Over bank and over brae,
Where the copsewood is the greenest,
Where the fountains glisten sheenest,
Where the lady-fern grows strongest,
Where the morning dew lies longest,
Where the black-cock sweetest sips it,
Where the fairy latest trips it :

Hie to haunts right seldom seen,
Lovely, lonesome, cool, and green,
Over bank and over brae,
Hie away, hie away.

From Waverley, 1814.

Haste thee, haste thee, to be gone, Earth flits fast, and time draws on,Gasp thy gasp, and groan thy groan,

Day is near the breaking.

From Guy Mannering.

JOCK O' HAZELDEAN “ WHY weep ye by the tide, ladie ?

Why weep ye by the tide ?
I'll wed ye to my youngest son,

And ye sall be his bride :
And ye sall be his bride, ladie,

Sae comely to be seen
But aye she loot the tears down fa'

For Jock o' Hazeldean.

TWIST YE, TWINE YE! EVEN SO Twist ye, twine ye! even so, Mingle shades of joy and woe, Hope and fear and peace and strife, In the thread of human life.

"Now let this wilfu' grief be done,

And dry that cheek so pale ;Young Frank is chief of Errington

And lord of Langley-dale ; His step is first in peaceful ha',

His sword in battle keen"But aye she loot the tears down fa'

For Jock o' Hazeldean,

While the mystic twist is spinning, And the infant's life beginning,