W.E. Aytoun.

Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers and Other Poems online

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Earl of Eglinton and Winton,






_This Volume is a verbatim reprint of the first edition_ (1849).






The great battle of Flodden was fought upon the 9th of September, 1513.
The defeat of the Scottish army, mainly owing to the fantastic ideas of
chivalry entertained by James IV., and his refusal to avail himself of
the natural advantages of his position, was by far the most disastrous
of any recounted in the history of the northern wars. The whole strength
of the kingdom, both Lowland and Highland, was assembled, and the
contest was one of the sternest and most desperate upon record.

For several hours the issue seemed doubtful. On the left the Scots
obtained a decided advantage; on the right wing they were broken and
overthrown; and at last the whole weight of the battle was brought into
the centre, where King James and the Earl of Surrey commanded in person.
The determined valour of James, imprudent as it was, had the effect of
rousing to a pitch of desperation the courage of the meanest soldiers;
and the ground becoming soft and slippery from blood, they pulled off
their boots and shoes, and secured a firmer footing by fighting in their

"It is owned," says Abercromby, "that both parties did wonders, but none
on either side performed more than the King himself. He was again told
that by coming to handy blows he could do no more than another man,
whereas, by keeping the post due to his station, he might be worth many
thousands. Yet he would not only fight in person, but also on foot; for
he no sooner saw that body of the English give way which was defeated by
the Earl of Huntley, but he alighted from his horse, and commanded his
guard of noblemen and gentlemen to do the like and follow him. He had at
first abundance of success; but at length the Lord Thomas Howard and Sir
Edward Stanley, who had defeated their opposites, coming in with the
Lord Dacre's horse, and surrounding the King's battalion on all sides,
the Scots were so distressed that, for their last defence, they cast
themselves into a ring; and being resolved to die nobly with their
sovereign, who scorned to ask quarter, were altogether cut off. So say
the English writers, and I am apt to believe that they are in the

The battle was maintained with desperate fury until nightfall. At the
close, according to Mr. Tytler, "Surrey was uncertain of the result of
the battle: the remains of the enemy's centre still held the field;
Home, with his Borderers, still hovered on the left; and the commander
wisely allowed neither pursuit nor plunder, but drew off his men, and
kept a strict watch during the night. When the morning broke, the
Scottish artillery were seen standing deserted on the side of the hill;
their defenders had disappeared; and the Earl ordered thanks to be given
for a victory which was no longer doubtful. Yet, even after all this, a
body of the Scots appeared unbroken upon a hill, and were about to
charge the Lord-Admiral, when they were compelled to leave their
position by a discharge of the English ordnance.

"The loss of the Scots in this fatal battle amounted to about ten
thousand men. Of these, a great proportion were of high rank; the
remainder being composed of the gentry, the farmers, and landed
yeomanry, who disdained to fly when their sovereign and his nobles lay
stretched in heaps around them." Besides King James, there fell at
Flodden the Archbishop of St. Andrew's, thirteen earls, two bishops, two
abbots, fifteen lords and chiefs of clans, and five peers' eldest sons,
besides La Motte the French ambassador, and the secretary of the King.
The same historian adds - "The names of the gentry who fell are too
numerous for recapitulation, since there were few families of note in
Scotland which did not lose one relative or another, whilst some houses
had to weep the death of all. It is from this cause that the sensations
of sorrow and national lamentation occasioned by the defeat were
peculiarly poignant and lasting - so that to this day few Scotsmen can
hear the name of Flodden without a shudder of gloomy regret."

The loss to Edinburgh on this occasion was peculiarly great. All the
magistrates and able-bodied citizens had followed their King to Flodden,
whence very few of them returned. The office of Provost or chief
magistrate of the capital was at that time an object of ambition, and
was conferred only upon persons of high rank and station. There seems to
be some uncertainty whether the holder of this dignity at the time of
the battle of Flodden was Sir Alexander Lauder, ancestor of the
Fountainhall family, who was elected in 1511, or that great historical
personage, Archibald Earl of Angus, better known as Archibald
Bell-the-Cat, who was chosen in 1513, the year of the battle. Both of
them were at Flodden. The name of Sir Alexander Lauder appears upon the
list of the slain; Angus was one of the survivors, but his son, George,
Master of Angus, fell fighting gallantly by the side of King James. The
city records of Edinburgh, which commence about this period, are not
clear upon the point, and I am rather inclined to think that the Earl of
Angus was elected to supply the place of Lauder. But although the actual
magistrates were absent, they had formally nominated deputies in their
stead. I find, on referring to the city records, that "George of Tours"
had been appointed to officiate in the absence of the Provost, and that
four other persons were selected to discharge the office of bailies
until the magistrates should return.

It is impossible to describe the consternation which pervaded the whole
of Scotland when the intelligence of the defeat became known. In
Edinburgh it was excessive. Mr. Arnot, in the history of that city,
says, -

"The news of their overthrow in the field of Flodden reached Edinburgh
on the day after the battle, and overwhelmed the inhabitants with grief
and confusion. The streets were crowded with women seeking intelligence
about their friends, clamouring and weeping. Those who officiated in
absence of the magistrates proved themselves worthy of the trust. They
issued a proclamation, ordering all the inhabitants to assemble in
military array for defence of the city, on the tolling of the bell; and
commanding, 'that all women, and especially strangers, do repair to
their work, and not be seen upon the street _clamorand and cryand_; and
that women of the better sort do repair to the church and offer up
prayers, at the stated hours, for our Sovereign Lord and his army, and
the townsmen who are with the army.'"

Indeed the council records bear ample evidence of the emergency of that
occasion. Throughout the earlier pages, the word "Flowdoun" frequently
occurs on the margin, in reference to various hurried orders for arming
and defence; and there can be no doubt that, had the English forces
attempted to follow up their victory, and attack the Scottish capital,
the citizens would have resisted to the last. But it soon became
apparent that the loss sustained by the English was so severe, that
Surrey was in no condition to avail himself of the opportunity; and in
fact, shortly afterwards, he was compelled to disband his army.

The references to the city banner, contained in the following poem, may
require a word of explanation. It is a standard still held in great
honour and reverence by the burghers of Edinburgh, having been presented
to them by James the Third, in return for their loyal service in 1482.
This banner, along with that of the Earl Marischal, still conspicuous in
the Library of the Faculty of Advocates, was honourably brought back
from Flodden, and certainly never could have been displayed in a more
memorable field. Maitland says, with reference to this very interesting
relic of antiquity, -

"As a perpetual remembrance of the loyalty and bravery of the
Edinburghers on the aforesaid occasion, the King granted them a banner
or standard, with a power to display the same in defence of their king,
country, and their own rights. This flag is kept by the Convener of the
Trades; at whose appearance therewith, it is said that not only the
artificers of Edinburgh are obliged to repair to it, but all the
artisans or craftsmen within Scotland are bound to follow it, and fight
under the Convener of Edinburgh as aforesaid."

No event 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



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 sharp they be!
Woe is written on thy visage,
Death is looking from thy face:
Speak, though it be of overthrow -
It cannot be disgrace!"


Right bitter was the agony
That wrung the soldier proud:
Thrice did he strive to answer,
And thrice he groaned aloud.
Then he gave the riven banner
To the old man's shaking hand,
Saying - "That is all I bring ye
From the bravest of the land!
Ay! ye may look upon it -
It was guarded well and long,
By your brothers and your children,
By the valiant and the strong.
One by one they fell around it,
As the archers laid them low,
Grimly dying, still unconquered,
With their faces to the foe.
Ay! ye well may look upon it -
There is more than honour there,
Else, be sure, I had not brought it
From the field of dark despair.
Never yet was royal banner
Steeped in such a costly dye;
It hath lain upon a bosom
Where no other shroud shall lie.
Sirs! I charge you keep it holy,
Keep it as a sacred thing,
For the stain you see upon it
Was the life-blood of your King!"


Woe, woe, and lamentation!
What a piteous cry was there!
Widows, maidens, mothers, children,
Shrieking, sobbing in despair!
Through the streets the death-word rushes,
Spreading terror, sweeping on -
"Jesu Christ! our King has fallen -
O great God, King James is gone!
Holy Mother Mary, shield us,
Thou who erst did lose thy Son!
O the blackest day for Scotland
That she ever knew before!
O our King - the good, the noble,
Shall we see him never more?
Woe to us and woe to Scotland,
O our sons, our sons and men!
Surely some have 'scaped the Southron,
Surely some will come again!"
Till the oak that fell last winter
Shall uprear its shattered stem -
Wives and mothers of Dunedin -
Ye may look in vain for them!


But within the Council Chamber
All was silent as the grave,
Whilst the tempest of their sorrow
Shook the bosoms of the brave.
Well indeed might they be shaken
With the weight of such a blow:
He was gone - their prince, their idol,
Whom they loved and worshipped so!
Like a knell of death and judgment
Rung from heaven by angel hand,
Fell the words of desolation
On the elders of the land.
Hoary heads were bowed and trembling,
Withered hands were clasped and wrung:
God had left the old and feeble,
He had ta'en away the young.


Then the Provost he uprose,
And his lip was ashen white,
But a flush was on his brow,
And his eye was full of light.
"Thou hast spoken, Randolph Murray,
Like a soldier stout and true;
Thou hast done a deed of daring
Had been perilled but by few.
For thou hast not shamed to face us,
Nor to speak thy ghastly tale,
Standing - thou, a knight and captain -
Here, alive within thy mail!
Now, as my God shall judge me,
I hold it braver done,
Than hadst thou tarried in thy place,
And died above my son!
Thou needst not tell it: he is dead.
God help us all this day!
But speak - how fought the citizens
Within the furious fray?
For, by the might of Mary,
'T were something still to tell
That no Scottish foot went backward
When the Royal Lion fell!"


"No one failed him! He is keeping
Royal state and semblance still;
Knight and noble lie around him,
Cold on Flodden's fatal hill.
Of the brave and gallant-hearted,
Whom ye sent with prayers away,
Not a single man departed
From his monarch yesterday.
Had you seen them, O my masters!
When the night began to fall,
And the English spearmen gathered
Round a grim and ghastly wall!
As the wolves in winter circle
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."


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!


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!"


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!"


"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,
Once more see each other's face;
Then, like men that need not tremble,
Go to our appointed place.
God, our Father, will not fail us
In that last tremendous hour, -
If all other bulwarks crumble,
HE will be our strength and tower:
Though the ramparts rock beneath us,
And the walls go crashing down,
Though the roar of conflagration
Bellow o'er the sinking town;
There is yet one place of shelter,
Where the foeman cannot come,
Where the summons never sounded
Of the trumpet or the drum.
There again we'll meet our children,
Who, on Flodden's trampled sod,
For their king and for their country
Rendered up their souls to God.
There shall we find rest and refuge,
With our dear departed brave;
And the ashes of the city
Be our universal grave!"


The most poetical chronicler would find it impossible to render the
incidents of Montrose's brilliant career more picturesque than the
reality. Among the devoted champions who, during the wildest and most
stormy period of our history, maintained the cause of Church and King,
"the Great Marquis" undoubtedly is entitled to the foremost place. Even
party malevolence, by no means extinct at the present day, has been
unable to detract from the eulogy pronounced upon him by the famous
Cardinal de Retz, the friend of Condé and Turenne, when he thus summed
up his character: - "Montrose, a Scottish nobleman, head of the house of
Grahame - the only man in the world that has ever realised to me the
ideas of certain heroes, whom we now discover nowhere but in the lives

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Online LibraryW.E. AytounLays of the Scottish Cavaliers and Other Poems → online text (page 1 of 11)