The monk gently placed the maid on her steed, and led her to the fair
Chapel of Tilmouth. The night was spent in prayer, and at dawn she was
safely given to her kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare.

All day, till darkness drew her wing over the ghastly scene, more
desperate grew the deadly strife. When night had fallen, Surrey drew his
shattered bands from the fray. Then Scotland learned her loss.

"Their king, their lords, their mightiest low,
They melted from the field as snow,
Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless splash
While many a broken band,
Disorder'd, through her currents dash,
To gain the Scottish land;
To town and tower, to down and dale,
To tell red Flodden's dismal tale,
And raise the universal wail.
Tradition, legend, tune, and song,
Shall many an age that wail prolong:
Still from the sire the son shall hear
Of the stern strife, and carnage drear.
Of Flodden's fatal field,
Where shiver'd was fair Scotland's spear,
And broken was her shield!

"Day dawns upon the mountain's side:--
There, Scotland! lay thy bravest pride,
Chiefs, knights, and nobles, many a one:
The sad survivors all are gone.
View not that corpse mistrustfully,