Stories of the Scottish Border — Chapter 20 After Flodden
So deeply did the tragic result of Flodden touch the hearts of the Scottish people that no Scot could for many a long day hear it mentioned without a heart-thrill.
Many are the songs written about it, the most famous perhaps, being the "Flowers of the Forest," written two centuries later, though partly founded upon an older and almost forgotten song.
*THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST*
I've heard them lilting, at our ewe-milking, Lasses a' lilting, before dawn o' day;
But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning[#] The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
[#] a broad grassy lane used as milking-ground.
At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning;[#] The lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae;
Wae daffing,[#] nae gabbing,[#] but sighing and sabbing;
Ilk ane lifts her leglin,[#] and hies her away.
[#] rallying.
[#] joking.
[#] chatting.
[#] milking-pail.
In hair'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, The bandsters[#] are runkled,[#] and lyart[#] or gray;
At fair, or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching;[#] The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
[#] sheaf-binders.
[#] wrinkled.
[#] inclining to grey.
[#] coaxing.
At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming 'Bout stacks with the lasses at bogle to play;
But ilk maid sits dreary, lamenting her deary-- The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border!
The English, for ance, by guile wan the day: The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost, The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay.
We'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe-milking;
Women and bairns are heartless and wae: Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning-- The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
JEAN ELLIOT (1727-1805).
The following poem also gives eloquent and touching expression to the deep gloom which descended upon the Border after the fatal battle, and tells of the despair felt in almost every Ettrick home:-- *SELKIRK AFTER FLODDEN*
(A WIDOW'S DIRGE, OCTOBER 1513)
It's but a month the morn Sin' a' was peace and plenty;
Oor hairst was halflins shorn, Eident men and lasses denty.
But noo it's a' distress-- Never mair a merry meetin ';
For half the bairns are faitherless, And a' the women greetin'.
O Flodden Field!
Miles and miles round Selkirk toun, Where forest flow'rs are fairest, Ilka lassie's stricken doun, Wi' the fate that fa's the sairest.
A' the lads they used to meet By Ettrick braes or Yarrow Lyin' thrammelt head and feet In Brankstone's deadly barrow!
O Flodden Field!
Frae every cleuch and clan The best o' the braid Border Rose like a single man To meet the royal order.
Oor Burgh toun itsel' Sent its seventy doun the glen;
Ask Fletcher[#] how they fell, Bravely fechtin', ane to ten!
O Flodden Field!
[#] This was the man who brought an English flag back to Selkirk from Flodden.
Four brothers of that name are said to have perished in the battle.
Round about their gallant king, For country and for croun, Stude the dauntless Border ring, Till the last was hackit doun.
I blame na what has been-- They maun fa' that canna flee-- But oh, to see what I hae seen, To see what now I see!
O Flodden Field!
The souters a' fu' croose, O'er their leather and their lingle, Wi' their shoon in ilka hoose, Sat contentit round the ingle.
Noo there's naething left but dool,-- Never mair their work will cheer them;
In Flodden's bluidy pool They'll neither wait nor wear them!
O Flodden Field!
Whar the weavers used to meet, In ilka bieldy corner, Noo there's nane in a' the street, Savin' here and there a mourner, Walkin' lonely as a wraith, Or if she meet anither, Just a word below their braith O' some slauchtered son or brither!
O Flodden Field!
There stands the gudeman's loom That used tae gang sae cheerie, Untentit noo, and toom, Makin' a' the hoose sae eerie, Till the sicht I canna dree;
For the shuttles lyin' dumb Speak the loudlier to me O' him that wunna come.
O Flodden Field!
Sae at nicht I cover't o'er, Just to haud it frae my een, But I haena yet the pow'r To forget what it has been;
And I listen through the hoose For the chappin o' the lay, Till the scrapin' o' a moose Tak's my very braith away.
O Flodden Field!
Then I turn to sister Jean, And my airms aboot her twine, And I kiss her sleepless een, For her heart's as sair as mine,-- A heart ance fu' o' fun, And hands that ne'er were idle, Wi' a' her cleedin' spun Against her Jamie's bridal.
O Flodden Field!
Noo we've naether hands nor hairt-- In oor grief the wark's forgotten, Though it's wantit every airt, And the craps are lyin' rotten.
War's awsome blast's gane bye, And left a land forlorn;
In daith's dool hairst they lie, The shearers and the shorn.
O Flodden Field.
Wi' winter creepin' near us, When the nichts are drear and lang, Nane to help us, nane to hear us, On the weary gate we gang!
Lord o' the quick an' deed, Sin' oor ain we canna see, In mercy mak gude speed, And bring us whar they be, Far, far, frae Flodden Field!
"J. B.
Selkirk" (JAMES B. BROWN).
_By permission of W. Cuthbertson, Esq.
_ Another lyric, relating to the fatal battle of Flodden, refers to the gallantry of the Souters, or shoemakers of Selkirk, who, to the number of eighty, and headed by their town-clerk, joined the army as it entered England.
They distinguished themselves greatly, and few returned.
The "yellow and green" are the liveries of the house of Home, taxed by some with being the cause of the defeat.
*THE SOUTERS OF SELKIRK*
Up wi' the Souters of Selkirk, And doun wi' the Earl of Home;
And up wi' a' the braw lads That sew the single-soled shoon.
Fye upon yellow and yellow, And fye upon yellow and green, But up wi' the true blue and scarlet, And up wi' the single-soled sheen.
Up wi' the Souters of Selkirk, For they are baith trusty and leal;
And up wi' the men o' the Forest, And doun wi' the Merse to the deil.
In Aytoun's "Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers," the following well-known poem tells how the news of the disaster at Flodden Field was received in Edinburgh:-- *EDINBURGH AFTER FLODDEN*
I
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.
II
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?
III
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.
[Illustration: "_Tell us all--oh, tell us true!
_"] IV
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 shout, 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.
'Twere better that in fiery flame The roofs should thunder down, Than that the foot of foreign foe Should trample in the town!"
V
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 mailed 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.
VI
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!"
VII
Right bitter was the agony That wrung that 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 may well 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 ye see upon it Was the life-blood of your King!"
VIII
Woe and 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!"
Randolph Murray describes how the monarch lies dead on the field with his nobles round him.
"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."
A hollow knell is rung and the miserere is sung, and all is terror and disorder until the Provost rouses them.
"If our King be taken from us, We are left to guard his son.
* * * * * 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!"
*Chapter XXI*
