XIV.

  Still the bells are tolling fiercely,
    And the cry comes louder in;
  Mothers wailing for their children,
    Sisters for their slaughtered kin. 
  All is terror and disorder,
    Till the Provost rises up,
  Calm, as though he had not tasted
    Of the fell and bitter cup. 
  All so stately from his sorrow,
    Rose the old undaunted Chief,
  That you had not deemed, to see him,
    His was more than common grief. 
  “Rouse ye, Sirs!” he said; “we may not
    Longer mourn for what is done: 
  If our King be taken from us,
    We are left to guard his son. 
  We have sworn to keep the city
    From the foe, whate’er they be,
  And the oath that we have taken
    Never shall be broke by me. 
  Death is nearer to us, brethren,
    Than it seemed to those who died,
  Fighting yesterday at Flodden,
    By their lord and master’s side. 
  Let us meet it then in patience,
    Not in terror or in fear;
  Though our hearts are bleeding yonder,
    Let our souls be steadfast here. 
  Up, and rouse ye!  Time is fleeting,
    And we yet have much to do;
  Up! and haste ye through the city,
    Stir the burghers stout and true! 
  Gather all our scattered people,
    Fling the banner out once more,—­
  Randolph Murray! do thou bear it,
    As it erst was borne before: 
  Never Scottish heart will leave it,
    When they see their monarch’s gore!”

  XV.

  “Let them cease that dismal knelling! 
    It is time enough to ring,
  When the fortress-strength of Scotland
    Stoops to ruin like its King. 
  Let the bells be kept for warning,
    Not for terror or alarm;
  When they next are heard to thunder,
    Let each man and stripling arm. 
  Bid the women leave their wailing,—­
    Do they think that woeful strain,
  From the bloody heaps of Flodden
    Can redeem their dearest slain? 
  Bid them cease,—­or rather hasten
    To the churches, every one;
  There to pray to Mary Mother,
    And to her anointed Son,
  That the thunderbolt above us
    May not fall in ruin yet;
  That in fire, and blood, and rapine,
    Scotland’s glory may not set. 
  Let them pray,—­for never women
    Stood in need of such a prayer! 
  England’s yeomen shall not find them
    Clinging to the altars there. 
  No! if we are doomed to perish,
    Man and maiden, let us fall;
  And a common gulf of ruin
    Open wide to whelm us all! 
  Never shall the ruthless spoiler
    Lay his hot insulting hand
  On the sisters of our heroes,
    Whilst we bear a torch or brand! 
  Up! and rouse ye, then, my brothers,
    But when next ye hear the bell
  Sounding forth the sullen summons
    That may be our funeral knell,
  Once more let us meet together,