XXVII.

Thin curling in the morning air, The wreaths of failing smoke declare, To embers now the brands decayed, Where the night-watch their fires had made. They saw, slow rolling on the plain, Full many a baggage-cart and wain, And dire artillery’s clumsy car, By sluggish oxen tugged to war; And there were Borthwick’s Sisters Seven, And culverins which France had given. Ill-omened gift! the guns remain The conqueror’s spoil on Flodden plain.