And up then rose the Provost-- A brave old man was he, Of ancient name and knightly fame, And chivalrous degree. He ruled our city like a Lord Who brooked no equal here, And ever for the townsmen's rights Stood up 'gainst prince and peer. And he had seen the Scottish host March from the Borough-muir, With music-storm and clamorous shout And all the din that thunders out, When youth's of victory sure. But yet a dearer thought had he, For, with a father's pride, He saw his last remaining son Go forth by Randolph's side, With casque on head and spur on heel, All keen to do and dare; And proudly did that gallant boy Dunedin's banner bear. Oh, woeful now was the old man's look, And he spake right heavily-- "Now, Randolph, tell thy tidings, However sharp they be! Woe is written on thy visage, Death is looking from thy face: Speak, though it be of overthrow-- It cannot be disgrace!" VII. Right bitter was the agony That wrung the soldier proud: Thrice did he strive to answer, And thrice he groaned aloud. Then he gave the riven banner To the old man's shaking hand, Saying--"That is all I bring ye From the bravest of the land! Ay! ye may look upon it-- It was guarded well and long, By your brothers and your children, By the valiant and the strong. One by one they fell around it, As the archers laid them low, Grimly dying, still unconquered, With their faces to the foe. Ay! ye well may look upon it-- There is more than honour there, Else, be sure, I had not brought it From the field of dark despair. Never yet was royal banner Steeped in such a costly dye; It hath lain upon a bosom Where no other shroud shall lie. Sirs! I charge you keep it holy, Keep it as a sacred thing, For the stain you see upon it Was the life-blood of your King!" VIII. Woe, woe, and lamentation! What a piteous cry was there! Widows, maidens, mothers, children, Shrieking, sobbing in despair! Through the streets the death-word rushes, Spreading terror, sweeping on-- "Jesu Christ! our King has fallen-- O great God, King James is gone! Holy Mother Mary, shield us, Thou who erst did lose thy Son! O the blackest day for Scotland That she ever knew before! O our King--the good, the noble, Shall we see him never more? Woe to us and woe to Scotland, O our sons, our sons and men! Surely some have 'scaped the Southron, Surely some will come again!" Till the oak that fell last winter Shall uprear its shattered stem-- Wives and mothers of Dunedin-- Ye may look in vain for them! IX.