The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
46
Grasped their broad claymores ere the fight began;
A thousand flashes from their blades arise,
Thick as the stars, when frost has cleared the skies.
In shining mail, and with a steed of fire,
From Barden went the noble-hearted Swire.
With horse and harness rode the sons of Carr,
Stout, brave, and fierce, as ever went to war.
From Langcliffe rode the fiery-hearted Browne,
Whose well-aimed shafts twice forty Scots struck down.
Fearful at first the meeting armies close,
But fear soon fled, and fierce confusion rose.
Brookden and Hammond, and determined Chew,
Through ranks of Scots like fiery meteors flew.
Garforth and Eastburn, Currer, Shaw, and Wood,
Fought till their horses' hoofs were wet with blood.
All those who would describe that bloody day,
Must from a task so mournful turn away.
Describe till death, no living mortal can
Give a true picture of each varied clan.
'Twas such a day as ne'er can be forgot
While live the lines of great Sir Walter Scott.
But I, an humble bard, had Flodden left,
Had not great Clifford many a helmet cleft;
And led a thousand warriors to the field,
Stout sons of Craven, who would never yield.
But Homer has such mighty battles sung,
Virgil and Lucan their grand harps have strung
47
That few new thoughts for humbler bards remain.
To greater fancies humbly will I leave
The fight where many bosoms ceased to heave.
'Twas fierce as rage could blow revengeful fire—
'Twas deadly as the grave could e'er desire;
The field so gory, that the birds of prey
A moment stopped, then, sated, flew away.
There many a mother wandered near the field,
For fear the sons of Scotia should yield.
The mourning virgins see the battle's shock,
Their eyes just raised o'er some adjacent rock—
Trembling, when sounds of battle reach their ear,
Lest some dear father should lie slaughtered there.
Not like a battle where the warriors are
Wounded or slain in hostile lands afar,
Stretched bloody, cold, and pale, in deadly sleep,
With none to close their eyes—with none to weep.
Then fled the Scottish chiefs, and all was still,
Save dying groans on Flodden's gory hill.
Frantic among the slain the ladies ran,
To seek the wounded of each varied clan.
“Ochin Iro!” in Highland accents broke,
When youths were found, which never more awoke;
And many a Highland maid, in snowy vest,
Stained it with purple on a bleeding breast,
While banners of the victors waved on high,
And trumpets sounded o'er the victory.
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |