Midst the crash of falling turrets,

Let the last of Scots expire!

XIV.

Still the bells are tolling fiercely,
And the cry comes louder in;
Mothers wailing for their children,
Sisters for their slaughtered kin.
All is terror and disorder,

Till the Provost rises up,

Calm, as though he had not tasted
Of the fell and bitter cup.
All so stately from his sorrow,

Rose the old undaunted Chief,

That you had not deemed, to see him,
His was more than common grief.

"Rouse ye, Sirs!" he said; "we may not Longer mourn for what is done;

If our King be taken from us,
We are left to guard his son.
We have sworn to keep the city
From the foe, what'er they be,
And the oath that we have taken
Never shall be broke by me.

Death is nearer to us, brethren,

Than it seemed to those who died,

Fighting yesterday at Flodden,

By their lord and master's side.

Let us meet it then in patience,

Not in terror or in fear;

Though our hearts are bleeding yonder,

Let our souls be steadfast here.

Up, and rouse ye! Time is fleeting,

Up, and haste ye through the city,

Stir the burghers stout and true! Gather all our scattered people,

Fling the banner out once more,— Randolph Murray! do thou bear it, As it erst was borne before:

Never Scottish heart will leave it,

When they see their Monarch's gore!

XV.

"Let them cease that dismal knelling!

It is time enough to ring,

When the fortress-strength of Scotland

Stoops to ruin like its King.

Let the bells be kept for warning,

Not for terror or alarm;

When they next are heard to thunder,
Let each man and stripling arm.
Bid the women leave their wailing-
Do they think that woeful strain,
From the bloody heaps of Flodden,
Can redeem their dearest slain?

Bid them cease-or rather hasten

To the churches, every one;
There to pray to Mary Mother,
And to her anointed Son,
That the thunderbolt above us

May not fall in ruin yet;
That in fire and blood and rapine
Scotland's glory may not set.

Let them pray,—for never women
Stood in need of such a prayer!-
England's yeomen shall not find them
Clinging to the altars there.

No! if we are doomed to perish,
Man and maiden, let us fall,
And a common gulf of ruin
Open wide to whelm us all!
Never shall the ruthless spoiler
Lay his hot insulting hand
On the sisters of our heroes,

Whilst we bear a torch or brand!

Up! and rouse ye, then, my brothers--
But when next ye hear the bell
Sounding forth the sullen summons
That may be our funeral knell,

Once more let us meet together,

Once more see each other's face; Then, like men that need not tremble, Go to our appointed place.

God, our Father, will not fail us

In that last tremendous hour,— If all other bulwarks crumble,

HE will be our strength and tower: Though the ramparts rock beneath us. And the walls go crashing down, Though the roar of conflagration Bellow o'er the sinking town; There is yet one place of shelter, Where the foeman cannot come, Where the summons never sounded Of the trumpet or the drum. There again we'll meet our children, Who, on Flodden's trampled sod, For their king and for their country Rendered up their souls to God. There shall we find rest and refuge,

With our dear departed brave; And the ashes of the city

Be our universal grave!"

WILLIAM THOM.

"THE Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-loom Weaver, by William Thom, of Inverary," published about ten years ago, comprise some pieces worthy the genius of Burns. His history is a very remarkable one, which our space will only allow us to glance at. He was a weaver, as the title of his poems indicate, and lived in the little village of Newtyle, near Cupar Angus. The failure of a great commercial house in America, silenced, in one week, 6000 looms in Scotland, and spread dismay through the whole country. Thom's earnings had been always small, and out of employment with a family to maintain, he was soon at his wit's end to obtain bread. At a pawnbroker's shop he exchanged the only remaining article of value he had for ten shillings, four of which he expended in books, that he hoped to sell at a profit, and four in articles for his wife to sell, while he retained two for current expenses. Locking up his house, the whole family, consisting of himself, wife, and four children, set forth upon the world to seek a living. They succeeded ill in their attempts at trade, and were soon reduced to absolute starvation. One night about nine o'clock, after a hard day's travel, they found themselves without any means to obtain a night's lodging. Leaving his family on the roadside, Thom applied at several places for shelter, but no one would take them in. Of one of these applications the poet says, "I pleaded the infancy of my family and the lateness of the hour, but 'No, no,' was the cruel reply. I returned to my family by the wayside. They had crept closer together, and all, except the mother, was fast asleep. 'Oh, Willie, Willie, what keepit ye?' inquired the trembling woman; 'I'm dootfu o' Jeanie,' she added; 'is na she waesome like? Let's in frae the cauld.' 'We've nae way to gang lass,' said I, whate'er come o' us. Your folk winna hae us.' Few more

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