When streams are swollen and south winds blow,
Dissolves in silent dew.
Tweed’s echoes heard the ceaseless plash,
While many a broken band,
Disordered, through her currents dash,
To gain the Scottish land:
To town and tower, to down and dale,
To tell red Flodden’s dismal tale.
Tradition, legend, tune and song,
Shall many an age that wail prolong;