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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
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
But every mark is gone :
And broke her font of stone ;
Oft halts the stranger there.
And shepherd boys repair
Day dawns upon the mountain's side.-
Nor cherish hope in vain
May yet return again,
To seek the water-flag and rush,
And plait their garlands fair,
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.
From The Lady of the Lake, 1810.
HAIL TO THE CHIEF WHO IN
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
Earth lend it sap anew,
While every Highland glen
Sends our shout back again, “ Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho!
ieroe !" Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the
Blooming at Beltane, in winter to
fade; When the whirlwind has stripped every
leaf on the mountain, The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in
Proof to the tempest's shock, Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow;
Menteith and Breadalbane, then
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.
Shake when they hear again, “ Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho !
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 !
might grow !
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
He is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,
When our need was the sorest.
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 ;
To reign his Queen of May ! “ With burnished brand and musketoon
So gallantly you come,
That lists the tuck of drum."
No more the trumpet hear ;
My comrades take the spear.
And Greta woods be gay,
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.
And Greta woods are green,
From Rokeby, 1813.
O, BRIGNALL banks are wild and fair,
And Greta woods are green,
Would grace a summer queen.
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;
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.'
And Greta woods are green;
Than reign our English queen.
And by your palfrey good,
To keep the king's greenwood.” “ A ranger, lady, winds his horn,
And 't is at peep of light;
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
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
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,
Hark! the knell is ringing.
Fear not snow-drift driving fast,
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,
Hie to haunts right seldom seen,
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 ?
And ye sall be his bride :
Sae comely to be seen
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,