The Poetical Works of Charles Mackay

THE EVE OF FLODDEN.

['In the church of Linlithgow is shown the of James IV., to warn him against the disastrous expedition, and which, as Lindsay of Pitscottie relates, as soon as it had delivered its message, "vanished like a blink of the sun, or a whip

aisle where an apparition burst upon the sight

of the whirlwind." When the invading army was encamped upon the Boroughmuir numberless midnight apparitions did squeak and gibber upon the streets of Edinburgh, threatening woe to the kingdom, and there was a spectral procession of heralds, who advanced to the Cross, and summoned the king and a long list of nobility to their final doom.']

WHO are these so dim and wan,
Haggard, gaunt, and woe-begone!
Who in suits of silvery mail
Wander in the moonlight pale,
Through Dunedin's narrow street,
Sad and slow,

And with mournful voice repeat,
Singing low-
Dim the night, but dark the morrow--
Long shall last the coming sorrow,———
Woe to Scotland, woe!'

II.

Helm on head and sword in hand,
Whence this melancholy band?
Even the banner that they bear
Droops dejected on the air,
As they walk with noiseless tread
To and fro,
And the sleeper from his bed

Rises slow,
Listening to that chant of sorrow-
'Dim the night, but dark the morrow—
Woe to Scotland, woe!'

III.

What they are, and their intent

IV.

Never yet Dunedin's street
Saw such ghastly warriors meet.
Now upon the Cross they stay;
And a radiance clear as day,
When the day is dim and chill,
Seems to glow

All around; and from the hill
Overflow

Gable, tower, and steeple-crosses, And the lonely wynds and closes:'Woe to Scotland, woe!

One steps forward from the rest,
Stately, gaunt, and richly dress'd;
And they form a circle round,
Sadly looking to the ground;
And a summons loud and shrill
Sounds below,
Downwards from the Calton Hill
Passing slow;
Then a trumpet-call to rally
Echoes over mount and valley—

"Woe to Scotland, woe!

VI.

Then the ling'ring echoes die
Faint and fainter on the sky,
And the spokesman of the band
Raises high his mail'd right hand,
And exclaims with earnest voice,
Speaking slow:
'Long will Scotland's foes rejoice :-
Hearts shall glow

At recital of our story,
And of Scotland's faded glory.

Woe to Scotland, woe!

VII.

'Nought shall bravery avail; Dust before the wild March gale Flies not faster than shall fly Scotland's proudest chivalry,

Whence they come, and whither bent-Royal Stuart, when thy might

If they come from kirkyard cold,
Or are men of mortal mould,
No one knows;—but all night long,
As they go,

There is heard a doleful song,
Clear, but low,-

'Deep the grief that's now beginning, Scotland's loss is England's winningWoe to Scotland, woe!'

Stricken low,

Shall be scatter'd in the fight
By the foe,
And thy fairest ranks be trodden
On the bloody field of Flodden.

Woe to Scotland, woe!

VIII.

'Crawford, Huntley, and Montrose ! Loud your shrill war-trumpet blows;→

XXV.

And every year, at Beltan E'en,
The Kelpie gallops across the green,
On a steed as fleet as the wintry wind,
With Jessie's mournful ghost behind.

XXVI.

I warn you, maids, whoever you be,
Beware of pride and vanity;
And ere on change of love you reckon,
Beware the Kelpie of Corrievreckan.

LORD NITHSDALE'S DREAM IN THE TOWER OF LONDON.

[In the notes to Cromek's Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song will be found the full particulars of Lord Nithsdale's escape narrated in the simple and touching language of Winifred Lady Nithsdale, in a letter to her sister.]

'FAREWELL to thee, Winifred, dearest and best!
Farewell to thee, wife of a courage so high!
Come hither, and nestle again in my breast,
Come hither, and kiss me again ere I die!
And when I am laid bleeding and low in the dust,
And yield my last breath at a tyrant's decree,
Look up-be resign'd-and the God of the just
Will shelter thy fatherless children and thee.'

II.

She wept on his breast, but, ashamed of her fears,
She dash'd off the drops that ran warm down her cheek-
'Be sorrow for those who have leisure for tears,

Oh, pardon thy wife, that her soul was so weak!
There is hope for us still, and I will not despair,
Though cowards and traitors exult at thy fate;
I'll show the oppressors what woman can dare-
I'll show them that love can be stronger than hate.

III.

Lip to lip-heart to heart-and their fond arms entwined-
He has clasp'd her again, and again, and again ;—
'Farewell to thee, Winifred, pride of thy kind,

Sole ray in my darkness-sole joy in my pain.'
She has gone! He has heard the last sound of her tread-
He has caught the last glimpse of her robes at the door-
She has gone! and the joy that her presence had shed,
Will cheer the sad heart of Lord Nithsdale no more.

IV.

The prisoner pray'd in his dungeon alone,

And thought of the morn and its dreadful array;

Then rested his head on his pillar of stone,

And slumber'd an hour ere the dawning of day.

Oh, balm of the weary !-oh, soother of pain!
That still to the sad givest pity and dole,
How gently, O Sleep, lay thy wings on his brain!
How sweet were thy dreams to his desolate soul !

Once more on his green native braes of the Nith
He pluck'd the wild breckan, a frolicsome boy;
He sported his limbs in the waves of the frith;

He trod the green heather in gladness and joy;
On his gallant gray steed to the hunting he rode-
In his bonnet a plume, on his bosom a star-
And chased the red-deer to its mountain abode,
And track'd the wild roe to its covert afar.

VI.

The vision has changed;--in a midsummer night
He roam'd with his Winifred blooming and young;
He gazed on her face by the moon's mellow light,

And loving and warm were the words on his tongue;
Through good and through evil he swore to be true,
And love through all fortune his Winnie alone-
And he saw the red blush o'er her cheek as it flew,
And heard her sweet voice that replied to his own.

VII.

Once more it has changed; in his martial array
Lo! he rode at the head of his gallant young men,
For the pibroch was heard on the hills far away,

And the clans were all gather'd from mountain and glen. For the darling of Scotland, their exile adored,

They raised the loud slogan-they rush'd to the strife, Unfurl'd was the banner-unsheathed was the sword, For the cause of their heart, that was dearer than life.

VIII.

Again-and the vision was lost to his sight;

But the phantom that follow'd was darksome and dread— The morn of his doom had succeeded the night,

And a priest by his side said the prayers for the dead. He heard the dull sound of the slow muffled drum,

And the hoarse sullen boom of the death-tolling bell. The block was prepared and the headsman had come, And the victim, bareheaded, walk'd forth from his cell.

IX.

No! no! 'twas but fancy-his hour was not yet-
And, waking, he turn'd on his pallet of straw,
And a form by his side he could never forget,
By the pale misty light of a taper he saw ;-
"Tis I-'tis thy Winifred!'-softly she said,
'Arouse thee, and follow-be bold—never fear;

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