University of Virginia Library

Canto III.

In Northern Climes a country lies,
Some think 'twixt Ursa Major's thighs;
Perhaps the reason makes them guess it
Is, that the Boar doth oft bepiss it;
And sometimes, when she lifts her tail,
She squirts it too with snow and hail.
If so, or not, I will not jangle,
Let those who trade in Line and Angle,
Who know by head the heavenly Cattle,
Can rank them up in Line of Battle,
And plainly tell the reason why
Bulls, Boars and Dogs, who guard the sky,
So harmless are, since we remark
They never bellow, grunt, nor bark;
Let those, who in these wares do traffic,
Describe them by rules geographic;
Yet, lest the Reader should repine,
This country lies be-north the Line,
Where foaming Neptune oftimes roars,
Insulting the opposing shores,
Which proudly beat him off again,
Extending far into the Main;
Nought here, which life requires, is wanting,
But that the naked fields lack planting:
Had Phyllis in this country liv'd,
Tho' by a faithless Lover griev'd,
A growing tree she had not found,
To keep her Tip-toes from the ground.
Turn but your Bowsprit to the pole,
And I assure you on parole,
If closely you pursue your Nose,
You'll find the place which we propose;
The people who this land possesses,
Live quietly, and pay their Cesses,
They fear the Lord, and till the ground,
And love a Creed that's short and sound;
'Tis true, their speech is not so pointed,
Nor with screw'd Looks their face disjointed;
If scant of Theory, their Practice
Supplies that want, which most exact is.
They are not fond of Innovations,
Nor covet much new Reformations;
They are not for new Paths, but rather
Each one joggs after his old father;
In other things discreet and sober,
Their Zeal no warmer than October:
Tho' stately, which is much admir'd,
Their Zeal and Courage too were fir'd,
Which makes me mind a good old Tale
My Good-dame told, “Tread on a Snail,
‘Tho' she be simple, yet no doubt
‘The Snail her horns will put out.”
With Zeal and Avarice possest,
Our Reformators could not rest,
Till of this place they got possession,
And forc'd on it their new Confession;
When arguments could not prevail,
And all their other Acts did fail,
Once more they rendezvous the Rabble,
To plant the Kirk with Gun and Shabble;
For tho' it still be frankly granted
By every one that's covenanted,
That Canons are the Pope's engines,
To carry on his black designs,
Found out in Antichristian schools;
Yet Pistols may be pious tools,
And in the Kirk, when militant,
There ought to be no swordless Saint.