[Footnote A:  Pipe-summons, or gathering-song, of Donald the Black.]

[1481.]

  Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,
    Pibroch of Donuil,
  Wake thy wild voice anew,
    Summon Clan Conuil. 
  Come away, come away,
    Hark to the summons! 
  Come in your war array,
    Gentles and commons.

  Come from deep glen, and
    From mountains so rocky;
  The war-pipe and pennon
    Are at Inverlochy. 
  Come every hill-plaid, and
    True heart that wears one,
  Come every steel blade, and
    Strong hand that bears one.

  Leave untended the herd,
    The flock without shelter;
  Leave the corpse uninterred,
    The bride at the altar;
  Leave the deer, leave the steer,
    Leave nets and barges;
  Come with your fighting gear,
    Broadswords and targes.

  Come as the winds come, when
   Forests are rended;
  Come as the waves come, when
   Navies are stranded;
  Faster come, faster come. 
   Faster and faster,
  Chief, vassal, page and groom,
   Tenant and master.

  Fast they come, fast they come;
   See how they gather! 
  Wide waves the eagle plume
   Blended with heather. 
  Cast your plaids, draw your blades,
   Forward each man set! 
  Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,
   Knell for the onset!

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

* * * * *

FLODDEN FIELD.

[September, 1513.]

FROM “MARMION,” CANTO VI.

  A moment then Lord Marmion stayed,
  And breathed his steed, his men arrayed,
    Then forward moved his band,
  Until, Lord Surrey’s rear-guard won,
  He halted by a cross of stone,
  That, on a hillock standing lone,
    Did all the field command.

  Hence might they see the full array
  Of either host for deadly fray;
  Their marshalled lines stretched east and west,
    And fronted north and south,
  And distant salutation past
    From the loud cannon-mouth;
  Not in the close successive rattle
  That breathes the voice of modern battle,
    But slow and far between.—­
  The hillock gained, Lord Marmion stayed: 
  “Here, by this cross,” he gently said,
    “You well may view the scene;
  Here shalt thou tarry, lovely Clare: 
  O, think of Marmion in thy prayer!—­
  Thou wilt not?—­well,—­no less my care
  Shall, watchful, for thy weal prepare.—­
  You, Blount and Eustace, are her guard,
    With ten picked archers of my train;
  With England if the day go hard,
    To Berwick speed amain,—­
  But, if we conquer, cruel maid,
  My spoils shall at your feet be laid,
    When here we meet again.” 
  He waited not for answer there,
  And would not mark the maid’s despair,
    Nor heed the discontented look
  From either squire:  but spurred amain,
  And, dashing through the battle-plain,
    His way to Surrey took.