in Scottish history ever took a more lasting hold of the public mind than the "woeful fight" of Flodden; and even now, the songs and traditions which are current on the Border recall the memory of a contest unsullied by disgrace, though terminating in disaster and defeat.
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 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.
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 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 elders of the city
- Have met within their hall—
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.
'T were better that in fiery flame
- The roofs should thunder down,
Than that the foot of foreign foe
- Should trample in the town!"
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:
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.
He ruled our city like a Lord
- Who brooked no equal here,
And ever for the townsmen's rights
Stood up 'gainst prince and peer.
- And he had seen the Scottish host
- March from the Borough-muir,
With music-storm and clamorous shout
And all the din that thunders out,
- When youth's of victory sure.
But yet a dearer thought had he,
- For, with a father's pride,
He saw his last remaining son
- Go forth by Randolph's side,
With casque on head and spur on heel,
- All keen to do and dare;
And proudly did that gallant boy
- Dunedin's banner bear.
Oh, woeful now was the old man's look,
- And he spake right heavily—
"Now, Randolph, tell thy tidings,
- However s