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 armed 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!”