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 And heedful watched them as they crossed The Till by Twisel bridge.

High sight it is and haughty, while

They dive into the deep defile;

Beneath the caverned cliff they fall,

Beneath the castle's airy wall. By rock, by oak, by hawthorn-tree,

Troop after troop are disappearing;

Troop after troop their banners rearing Upon the eastern bank you see. Still pouring down the rocky den,

Where flows the sullen Till, And rising from the dim-wood glen, Standards on standards, men on men,

In slow succession still, And sweeping o'er the Gothic arch, And pressing on in ceaseless march,

To gain the opposing hill. That morn to many a trumpet clang, Twisel ! thy rocks deep echo rang; And many a chief of birth and rank, Saint Helen ! at thy fountain drank. Thy hawthorn glade, which now we see In spring-tide bloom so lavishly, Had then from many an axe its doom, To give the marching columns room.

And why stands Scotland idly now, Dark Flodden! on thy airy brow, Since England gains the pass the while, And struggles through the deep defile?

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