News of battle! news of battle! Hark! ’tis ringing down the street: And the archways and the pavement Bear the clang of hurrying feet. News of battle! Who hath brought it? News of triumph! Who should bring Tidings from our noble army, Greetings from our gallant King? All last night we watched the beacons Blazing on the hills afar, Each one bearing, as it kindled, Message of the opened war. All night long the northern streamers Shot across the trembling sky: Fearful lights that never beckon Save when kings or heroes die. II 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. [Illustration: "_Tell us all—oh, tell us true!_"] 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 shout, 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. ’Twere better that in fiery flame The roofs should thunder down, Than that the foot of foreign foe Should trample in the town!" V