News of battle! Who hath brought it? All are thronging to the gate; "Warder--warder! open quickly! Man--is this a time to wait?" And the heavy gates are opened: Then a murmur long and loud, And a cry of fear and wonder Bursts from out the bending crowd. For they see in battered harness Only one hard-stricken man, And his weary steed is wounded, And his cheek is pale and wan. Spearless hangs a bloody banner In his weak and drooping hand-- God! can that be Randolph Murray, Captain of the city band? III. Round him crush the people, crying, "Tell us all--oh, tell us true! Where are they who went to battle, Randolph Murray, sworn to you? Where are they, our brothers--children? Have they met the English foe? Why art thou alone, unfollowed? Is it weal, or is it woe?" Like a corpse the grisly warrior Looks from out his helm of steel; But no word he speaks in answer, Only with his armèd heel Chides his weary steed, and onward Up the city streets they ride; Fathers, sisters, mothers, children, Shrieking, praying by his side. "By the God that made thee, Randolph! Tell us what mischance hath come!" Then he lifts his riven banner, And the asker's voice is dumb. IV. The elders of the city Have met within their hall-- The men whom good King James had charged To watch the tower and wall. "Your hands are weak with age," he said, "Your hearts are stout and true; So bide ye in the Maiden Town, While others fight for you. My trumpet from the Border-side Shall send a blast so clear, That all who wait within the gate That stirring sound may hear. Or, if it be the will of heaven That back I never come, And if, instead of Scottish shouts, Ye hear the English drum,-- Then let the warning bells ring out, Then gird you to the fray, Then man the walls like burghers stout, And fight while fight you may. 'T were better that in fiery flame The roofs should thunder down, Than that the foot of foreign foe Should trample in the town!" V. Then in came Randolph Murray,-- His step was slow and weak, And, as he doffed his dinted helm, The tears ran down his cheek: They fell upon his corslet, And on his mailèd hand, As he gazed around him wistfully, Leaning sorely on his brand. And none who then beheld him But straight were smote with fear, For a bolder and a sterner man Had never couched a spear. They knew so sad a messenger Some ghastly news must bring: And all of them were fathers, And their sons were with the King. VI.