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Boast, Hawick, Boast, Thy structures reared in blood
Shall
rise triumphant over flame and flood;
Still
doomed to prosper, since, on Flodden's field
Thy
sons a hardy band unwont to yield,
Fall
with their Martial King, and-glorious boast-
Gained
proud renown, where Scotia's fame was lost
Between
red ezlarbanks, that frightful scowl,
Frginged
with grey hazel, roars the mining Roull;
Where
Turnbulls once, a race no power could awe,
Lined
the rough skirts of stormy Rubieslaw.
Bold
was the chief from whom their line they drew,
Whose
nervous arm the furious bison slew,
The
bison fiercest race of Scotia's breed,
Whose
bounding course outstripp'd the red deer's speed
By hunters
chafed encircled on the plain,
He frowning
shook his yellow lion mane,
Spurned
with black hoof in bursting rage the ground,
And
fiercley toss'd his moony horns around.
On Scotia's
lord he rushed with lighting speed,
Bent
hi his strong neck, to toss the startled steed;
His
arms robust the hardy hunter flung
Around
his bending horns and upward rung,
With
writhing force his neck retorted round,
And
roll'd the panting monster on the ground,
Crush'd
with enormous strength his bony skull;
And
courtiers hail'd th man who turned the bull. |
