descended, and the two armies, one facing north, the other south, met
almost without seeing each other.

"From the sharp ridges of the hill,
All downward to the banks of Till,
Was wreathed in sable smoke.
Volumed and fast, and rolling far,
The cloud enveloped Scotland's war,
As down the hill they broke;
Nor mortal shout, nor minstrel tone,
Announced their march; their tread alone
Told England, from his mountain-throne
King James did rushing come.
Scarce could they hear or see their foes,
Until at weapon-point they close.
They close, in clouds of smoke and dust,
With sword-sway, and with lance's thrust;
And such a yell was there,
Of sudden and portentous birth,
As if men fought upon the earth,
And fiends in upper air;
Oh, life and death were in the shout,
Recoil and rally, charge and rout,
And triumph and despair.
Long look'd the anxious squires; their eye
Could in the darkness naught descry."

At length the breeze threw aside the shroud of battle, and there might
be seen ridge after ridge of spears. Pennon and plume floated like foam
on the crest of the wave. Spears shook; falchions flashed; arrows fell