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 mailed 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.

  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.