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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, Randolphf

Tell us what mischance hath come.
Then he lifts his riven banner,

And the askers' voice is dumb.

The elders of the city

Have met within their hall—
The men whom good King James had charge^

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 ye to the fray,
Then man the walls like burghers stout,

And fight while fight you may.
'Twere better that in fiery flame

The roof should thunder down, Than that the foot of foreign foe

Should trample in the town!"

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.

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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.

And up then rose the Provost—

A brave old man was he,
Of ancient name, and knightly fame,

And chivalrous degree.

Oh, woeful now was the old man's leck,

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!"

Right bitter was the agony

That wrung that 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 1 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 honor 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 stein you see upon it

Was the life-blood of your king:"

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Woe, woe, and lamentation I
What a piteous cry was there!

Widows, maidens, mothers, children,
Shrieking, sobbing in despair I

"Oh, the blackest day for Scotland

That she ever knew before!
Oh, our King! the good, the noble,

Shall we see him never more?
Woe to us, and woe to Scotland!

Oh, our sons, our sons and men! Surely some have 'scaped the Southron,

Surely some will come again?"

Till the -.ak that fell last winter
Shall uprear its shattered stem,—

Wives and mothers of Dunedin,—
Ye may look in vain for them!

A HUNDRED YEARS TO COME.—C. F. Brown.

Where, where will be the birds that sing,

A hundred years to come?
The flowers that now in beauty spring,

A hundred years to come?
The rosy lips, the lofty brow,
The heart that beats so gayly now,
Oh, where will be love's beaming eye,
Joy's pleasant smile, and sorrow's sigh,
A hundred years to come?

Who'll press for gold this crowded street

A hundred years to come?

Who'll tread yon church with willing feet,

A hundred years to come?
Pale, trembling age, and fiery youth,
And childhood with its brow of truth;
The rich and poor, on land and sea,
Where will the mighty millions be

A hundjed years to come?

We all within our graves shall sleep

A hundred years to come;
No living soul for us will weep,

A hundred years to come.
But other men our lands shall till,
And others, then, these streets will fill,
And other birds will sing as gay,
And bright the sun shine as to-day

A hundred years to come.

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