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 dared not scale;
  Every stone a Scottish body,
    Every step a corpse in mail! 
  And behind it lay our monarch
    Clenching still his shivered sword: 
  By his side Montrose and Athole,
    At his feet a southern lord. 
  All so thick they lay together,
    When the stars lit up the sky,
  That I knew not who were stricken,
    Or who yet remained 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 stooped, and took the banner,
    As ye see it, from his breast,
  And I closed our hero’s eyelids,
    And I left him to his rest. 
  In the mountains growled the thunder,
    As I leaped the woeful wall,
  And the heavy clouds were settling
    Over Flodden, like a pall.”

  XII.

  So he ended.  And the others
    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 idly 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;
  And the rampart’s thronged 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 fear—­
  God protect thee, Maiden City,
    For thy latest hour is near!

  XIII.

  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 perished
    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 hallowed 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!”