Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers (review) [pp. 553-561]

Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers.
ping all things, fearing all things, throng the
streets. The altars are blocked up with mothers
praying for their sons, wives wailing for their
husbands, maidens whispering vows to Mary
Mother for their lovers. The town council is
met in gloomy state, waiting in dread suspense
the presence of the messenger from the camp
whom the sentries on the walls announce as near
at hand. With clamorous shouts the mob without gaze anxiously at the gates, eager for the entrance of the messenger within the city walls.
Suddenly,
-the 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 armed 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.
lie is brought before the City Council
Then in came Randolph Murray, And 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 mailed hand,
As he gazed around him wistfully,
Leaning solely 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.
The old Provost, whose last surviving son had
been Randolph's standard-bearer in the fray, at
length bids him speak his tidings
Right bitter was the agony
That wrung that soldier proud:
Thirice 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 took 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 die;
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 ye see upon it
Was the life-blood of your King."
* * * * *
"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, 0 my masters!
Whien 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 hearth,
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 Athol,
At his feet a southern loid!
We could give many other extracts of equal
spirit and of greater length from this beautiful
poem, but our limits are prescribed; and as it
is, we apprehend too great temptations to substitute the "thoughts that breathe and words that
burn" of the pages before us, in the place of our
own text.
"The Execution of Montrose" is the next
'poem in order; a composition that, in the columns of Blackwood's Magazine, a few years
since, was widely read and very much admired.
At the hands of a foreign reviewer, it has lately met with great and well-merited praise. It
1849.]
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