Cauld was the blast and short the day
When James our King was ta'en away --
O waly, waly for his loss,
And the sad rout of Solway Moss!
That day of shame, that day of blame
That tarnished Scotland's faith and fame.
James ever swore by Scotland's crown
That he wad keep his nobles down --
The nobles fand at Fala Muir
They had the Monarch in their power,
For when he wad the South invade
The wily lords refused to aid.
In vain he threatened and implored,
And tauld he was their Sov'reign Lord;
'Gainst his command their hearts were steeled,
They wadna hear, they wadna uield,
But from the Border hameward hied,
Resolved to curb the Stuart's pride.
Deserted of his proud aray
The Monarch northward took his way
Wellnigh the victim of despair,
To brood indignant o'er his care --
For ah! The haughtly kingly soul
Was all impatient of control.
The South he would invade again --
At his command ten thousand men
Did by the western Border cross
To the drear waste of Solway Moss;
There was the royal flag displayed,
And there the King's commission read.
Shield-high Noll Sinclair took his stand
And read aloud the King's command
To spoil the Southron and to slay,
To ravage ruthless by the way,
While Noll himself was named the head
And high Commander of the raid.
But e'er the scroll cam' to a close,
From out the ranks a yell arose --
"A sorry jest, a royal whim --
This knave? We will have none of him."
Noll Sinclair trembled, as he stood
And marked the army's savage mood.
Yet some wad yield to James's will,
And bade the malcontents be still,
While others said this minion head
The Scottish honor would degrade;
Loud swelled the wordy war and high,
While Musgrave's force was drawing nigh.
Musgrave and Dacre with a force
(O shame!) of scarce three hundred horse
Surveyed the scene with wary eye,
And to the heedless ranks drew nigh,
Then headlong charged with lusty shout
And put their sorry foe to rout.
Sad was the carnage, brief the fray,
Our army fled in wild dismay,
Th' ignoble slain did heap the plain,
A thousand prisoners were ta'en:
Alas! that day of dool and shame,
Alas for Scotland's tarnished fame!
Ill news it flies on ready wing --
The tidings swiftly reached the King;
He heard, he bowed his haughty head,
A single word he breathed - "betrayed;"
Then silent passed, nor groan nor sigh
Proclaimed his utter agony.
On cam' he soon to Falkland toun,
And set him broken-hearted doun
Within his Palace. What was life
For him but ignominious strife?
His nobles and his Southron foe
Held him to scorn - a double woe.
Suspicion, Grief, and jealous pain
Lodged in his over-laden brain;
Black Disappointment's venomed dart
Stabbed to the core his anguished heart.
Sad victim to distempered Thought,
Thy royal state was dearly bought!
For hours he'd sit with fix'ed eye,
The prey to gloom and apathy,
Then from his seat would frantic start
And strike his hand upon his heart,
Then would he tear his unkempt hair
And furious beat the senseless air.
A griping claw within his breast
Remorseless robbed him of sweet rest,
And grim and sure it held its prey
Firm as a vice by night and day,
Until his strength began to fail,
His eye to dim, his cheek to pale.
Himself he deemed a mark for scorn;
No more for him the hound or horn,
The practised steed, the keen-eyed gled --
Those days of joy were ever fled,
But he would brood with frenzied mood
His sad disgrace in solitude.
For days he sat his weary lane
Till Reason fled his tortured brain,
And then he would abroad - he paced
The Palace Green with fev'rish haste;
But frequent would he pause, to gaze
Around in pitiful amaze.
Once through the public street he passed,
Alas! that progress was his last;
He tottered through the wondering town,
And, vacuous, ever gazed adown;
The honest town's folk looked and sighed
To see this wreck of kingly Pride.
Soon cam' the day when James was laid
To die on his uneasy bed.
'Twas strange; with bodily decay
His mental powers regained their sway --
He smiled to see his courtiers weep,
And wondered at their sorrow deep.
"O, I have trouble at the heart
Far, far beyond man's skill or art;
Since Death for me is but relief,
Then wherefore, friends, this bitter grief?
Rejoice to hear my laboured breath,
For Rest and Peace are mine in Death."
"Would that thou mightest live, O King,
For joyous news to thee I bring,
A child of thine shall fill the throne,
An heir is born to Scotland's crown."
The Monarch smiled - "My day is done,
I leave this burden to my son."
"Not to thy son, your Majestie,
A daughter hath been born to thee;"
The Monarch sighed - "and is it so?
Unhappy line! a further woe,
The Crown cam' to us with a lass,
And with a lass the Crown will pass."
Deep silence o'er the chamber fell;
No more he spake, but waved farewell,
And calmly gazed around the while
With placid melancholy smile;
Then turning gently on his side,
Like a tired child the Stuart died
I'd love to have you drop by!--Barbara
