By this, though deep the evening fell,
Still rose the battle's deadly swell,
For still the Scots, around their King, 995
Unbroken, fought in desperate ring.
Where's now their victor vaward wing,
Where Huntly, and where Home?--
O, for a blast of that dread horn,
On Fontarabian echoes borne, 1000
That to King Charles did come,
When Rowland brave, and Olivier,
And every paladin and peer,
On Roncesvalles died!
Such blasts might warn them, not in vain, 1005
To quit the plunder of the slain,
And turn the doubtful day again,
While yet on Flodden side,
Afar, the Royal Standard flies,
And round it toils, and bleeds, and dies, 1010
Our Caledonian pride!
In vain the wish--for far away,
While spoil and havoc mark their way,
Near Sybil's Cross the plunderers stray.--
'O Lady,' cried the Monk, 'away!' 1015
And placed her on her steed,
And led her to the chapel fair,
Of Tilmouth upon Tweed.
There all the night they spent in prayer,
And at the dawn of morning, there 1020
She met her kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare.