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In days of yore, when deeds were rife,
And wars on banks and braes,
And nought but strife on every side,
Which brought on dule and waes,
The Anglo-Saxons restless band
Had crossed the river Tweed;
Up for the hills of Lammermuir,
Their hosts marched on with speed.
Our Scottish warriors on the heath,
In close battalion stood,
Resolved to set their country free,
Or shed their dearest blood.
A chieftain from the Saxon band,
Exulting in his might,
Defied the bravest of the Scots
To come and single fight.
Old Edgar had a youthful son,
Who led the Scottish band;
He with the Saxon did agree
To fight it hand to hand.
The armies stood in deep suspense,
The combat for to view;
While aged Edgar stepped forth,
To bid his son adieu.
Adieu! Adieu! My darling son,
I fear that ye be lost;
For yester night my troubled mind,
With fearful dreams was toss’d.
I dream’d your mother’s parted shade
Between two armies stood,
A lovely youth on either hand,
Their bosoms streaming blood.
My heart will break if you should fall,
My only prop and stay;
Your brother when in infant years,
The Saxons stole away.
Delay it not, young Edgar said
But let the trumpets blow;
You soon shall see me prove your son,
And lay your boaster low.
The trumpets raised with deafening clang,
The fearful onset blew;
And when the chieftain stepped forth,
Their shining swords they drew
Like lions in a furious fight,
Their steeled falchions gleam,
Till from our Scottish warriors side
Fast flowed a crimson stream.
With deafening din the coats of mail
The deadly blows resound;
At last the Saxon warrior
Did breathless press the ground.
As aged Saxon came to view
The body of his chief;
His streaming eyes and downcast look,
Bespoke a heart of grief.
He’s dead, he cried, the bravest youth
E’re sprung from Edgar’s line;
I bore him from the Scottish coast,
And made him pass as mine.
And in the days of youthful prime,
He was my pride and boast;
For oft to victory he has
Led the Saxon host.
Old Edgar heard the Saxon’s moan,
His cheeks grew deadly pale,
A great convulsion shook his frame,
His nerves began to fail.
Frantic he tore his aged locks,
With time and trouble grey;
And faintly crying, My son, my son!
His spirit passed away.
The Scottish chief as his father fell,
He raised his fading eye,
And tore the bandage from his wounds,
To let life’s stream run dry.
He kissed his sire and his brother’s wounds,
That ghastly were and deep;
And closed him in his folding arms,
And fell on his long, long sleep.
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