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this night in my bed, nor even reposed my head upon my pillow, without giving vént! to my eternal abhòrrence of such enormous and prepòsterous principles.

EDINBURGH AFTER FLODDEN.

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 beacon
Save when kings or heroes die.

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-
What! 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 Power that made thee, Randolph,
Tell us what mischance hath come."

Then he lifts his riven banner,

And the asker's voice is dumb.

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-sido
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 shouts,
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 roof should thunder down, Than that the foot of foreign foe Should trample in the town!"

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.

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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!"

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 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 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 you see upon it

Was the life-blood of your king!”

Woe, woe, and lamentation !

What a piteous cry was there!

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"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!"
Till the oak that fell last winter

Shall uprear its shattered stem-
Wives and mothers of Dunedin-
Ye may look in vain for them!

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[WALTER SCOTT, the son of a writer to the Signet, was born in Edinburgh in 1771. After studying at the High School and the University of Edinburgh, he was trained to the legal profession, and passed as an advocate in 1792. He afterwards abandoned his profession, and resolved to make literature the basis of his fortune, when he witnessed the great popularity of his "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border." He then published in rapid succession "The Lay of the Last Minstrel," "Marmion," "The Lady of the Lake," &c., when his poetical reputation reached its culminating point, as the rising poetical star of Lord Byron was now paling every other fire. Scott now commenced that series of novels which chiefly constitute his passport to fame. He died at Abbotsford in 1832. His novels are, "Waverley," "Tales of my Landlord," "Ivanhoe," "The Heart of Mid-Lothian, &c.]

WILLIAM WALLACE was none of the high nobles of Scotland, but the son of a private gentleman called Wallace of Ellerslie, in Renfrewshire. He was very tall and handsome, and one of the strongest and bravest men that ever lived. He had a very fine countenance, with a quantity of fair hair,

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