_Provost Ramsay_.--Bravely said, callants! As sure as death, I wish ye were my sons! Do ye ken, Sir Alexander, the only thing that grieves me in a day like this, is, that I hae naebody to die for the glory an' honour o' auld Scotland but mysel? But, save us, neebor Elliot! ye look as douf an' as dowie-like as if ye had been forced to mak yer breakfast o' yer coat-sleeve. _Hugh Elliot_.---In truth, methinks, this is no time for smiles-- In every street, each corner of the town, Struck by some unseen hand, the dead are strewed; From every house the children's wail is heard, Screaming in vain for food; and the poor mother, Worn to a skeleton, sits groaning by! My house, 'tis known, o'erlooks the battlements; 'Tis not an hour gone that I left my couch, Hastening to speed me hither, when a sound, Fierce as the thunders, shook our firm-built walls: The casements fell in atoms, and the bed, Which I that moment left, rocked in confusion: I turned to gaze on it, and I beheld!--beheld My wife's fair bosom torn--her heart laid bare! And the red stream came oozing to my feet! _Is this a time for smiles!_ _Provost Ramsay_.--Your wife! Heaven preserve us! Weel, after a', I hae reason to be thankfu' I hae neither wife nor bairns on a day like this! _Sir Alex_.--Behold an envoy from the English camp, Sent with proposals, or some crafty truce. _Hugh Elliot_.--Let me entreat you, then, most noble sir, Give him all courtesy; and if his terms Be such as we in honour may accept, Refuse them not by saying, WE WILL DIE. _Enter_ EARL PERCY _and_ Attendants. _Percy_.--Good morrow, my Scotch cousins! My gracious sovereign, your right lawful master, Hath, in his mercy, left you these conditions-- Now to throw wide your gates, and, if ye choose, Go walk into the Tweed, and drown your treason; Or run, like scapegoats, to the wilderness, Bearing your sins, and half a week's provision; Or, should these terms not meet your approbation, Ere midnight we shall send some _fleeter messengers_. So now, old Governor, my master's answer? _Provost Ramsay_.--The mischief's in your impudence! But were I Sir Alexander, the only answer your master should hae, would be your weel-bred tongue sent back upon the end o' an arrow; an' that wad be as _fleet a messenger_, as ye talk about _fleet messengers_, as ony I ken o'. _Percy_.--Peace, thou barbarian! keep thy frog's throat closed. I say, old greybeard, hast thou found an answer? _Sir Alex_.--Had my Lord Percy found more fitting phrase To couch his haughty mandate, I perhaps Had found some meet reply. But as it is, Thou hast thine answer in this people's eyes. _Hugh Elliot_.--Since we with life and honour may depart, Send not an answer that must seal our ruin, Though it be hero-like to talk of death. [_Enter_ LADY SETON, _listening_.