Edward II was so certain of defeating the Scots that he brought along Carmelite friar and poet Robert Baston to record England’s triumph. When the English were defeated, Baston was captured and told he would only be released if he honoured the Scots’ success and England’s humiliation in a poem. This he did, without any sycophancy or cringing, highlighting rather the beastliness of any war, whoever the victor. This translation from the Latin is by Edwin Morgan.
It is June Thirteen Fourteen, and here I set the scene,
The Baptist’s head on a tureen, the battle on Stirling green.
Oh I am not glued to ancient schism and feud,
But my weeping is renewed for the dead I saw and rued.
Who will lend me the water I need to baptize these forays?
[…]
The Scottish king forms and informs his potent throng,
Infantry and cavalry. Oh what an array, so ordered and strong!
The king’s voice is heard, inspiring the nobility,
Giving the measured but fiery word to the men of quality.
He checks and directs the formation of his eager troops.
Others are worthless, he reckons, and their star droops.
He incites and delights the multitude of his men.
He flytes and derides the English – their treaties not worth a hen.
He said, and he led; all fingers must be firm to the end.
Never swerve from a serf of the shameless Saxon blend!
The masses are sassy, they relish the royal rousing.
They will stand like a band and give the Saxons a sousing!
[…]
Black Monday gives a new life to the deadly plague.
Scots blow the plague by lucky force upon the English flag.
The Angles are like angels glittering high and proud,
But valorous and vassal both are labouring under a cloud.
English eyes scan the skies for Scots ambushes to arise,
But Scots are near, are here, full size, surprise surprise!
The plebs are roaring and swearing, but when things get scary
They wilt and are weary, they crack under the fury.
The ogre is mediocre, the Scots are stockier.
Who will be known as victor? The Dutiful Doctor.
A reckless raid pretends to be robustly arrayed.
Deep sobs escalade from the face’s palisade,
Scots find a route to rush fast forward on foot,
Brandishing boot on boot, fielding loot for loot.
[…]
What snatching and catching, what bruising and broostling, what grief!
What warhorns and warnings, what winding and wirrying, no relief!
What slashing and slaughtering, what wounding and wailing, what a rout!
What lurking and lunging, what grabbing and groaning, what a turnabout!
What roaring and rearing, what shrinking and shaking, what lassooing!
What cloaking and collecting, what snipping and snecking, what undoing!
Bellies will be empty. Both broadswords and bodies are booty.
So many fatherless children to clutch at futurity!