From Barmoor’s bare and shrubless hill,
The hounds have doubled back to Till,
And seem to make for Chiviot hill.
Ah! hapless Fox, and dost thou know,
That fated Flodden lies below;
And does not dark foreboding fear
Warn thee that fated Flodden’s near;
And art thou doomed so soon to yield
Thy life on Flodden’s fated field.