A collection of scots poems on several occasions ::

When Pop'ry was pull'd down in days of yore,
Hastily banish'd from our Albion shore;
The subtle Jesuits contriv'd a way
The Protestant religion to betray.
Some things they left behind to prove their claim,
And the reformers title to be lame.
They gave the surplice to the English prelates,
And their repenting stools to Scottish zealots.
In these love-tokens both such pleasure take,
As if they hugg'd them for the giver's sake.
The first my muse may satirize ere long;
The last shall be the subject of this song.
Hail ancient relic of the Roman See!
Now vampt by a reforming Presbyt'ry.
Old, as the papal chair, thy days began,
When priest-craft lorded o'er the rights of man;
And men of royal blood did meanly go
To Antichrist at Rome, and kiss'd his toe.
When the blind laity mumbled o'er their beads,
Ave Marias sung and Latin creeds;
Trick'd by designing priests, and monks with shaven heads.
Penance was broach'd: by pious frauds betray'd,
The laity swallow'd all that priest-craft said.
Religion sunk with tales, there did succeed,
A wafer worship, and a god of bread.

So artfully the priests led th'easy fools,
That, cloath'd in sackcloth on repenting stools,
They thought their mortal sins were all forgiv'n,
And this the meritorious way to heav'n.

By th'same priest-craft we are chain'd secure,
Though we've renounc'd th'usurping papal pow'r;
The trick prevails, our scandal and our shame,
With such effects as I'm afraid to name.

How dare priests of this Romish idol boast,
Which hath such blood and such damnation cost?
If we consult our records, there we'll see,
'T has made a hundred on a gibbet die.
That cursed engine of the Roman power
Which doth our lives and very souls devour!
If fair Servilia's virtue make a slip,
By Rufus tempted to the youthful trip;
Soon as her pregnant womb begins to rise,
The quick'ning tomb where all her sorrow lies,
On every wall she reads that doleful sentence,
The place where fornicators make repentance.
Fearful she falls into Belshazzar's fit,
When Mene Tekel on the wall was writ.
Untouch'd with deep remorse, she doth not mourn,
And to a clement Saviour return;
No, no, she doth not think on heav'n or hell;
On the repenting-stool that thoughts do dwell:
The terrors of that awful seat prevails,
And oh! she listens to the devil's tales.
Satan suggests, for he's a cunning foe,
And will ye to your shame and ruin go;
Mount up a cock stool to be gaz'd upon,
In face of all the parish, and the sun;
Disgrace your friends, and get the name of whore,
And bear the scandal to your dying hour?
A bastard's slave, and a despised wretch
You'll live, and never need expect a match:
Think on a way to keep the name of maid;
And thus the poor unthinking girl's betray'd.
The hen-wife and old nurse, her fatal friends,
Contrive, and soon find out the murd'ring means;
And she goes on, while Satan holds the reins,
Until she gets a halter for her pains:

For that's the punishment of wicked fools;
And the result of our repenting stools.

My muse record, and don't priest's odium fear,
How once they serv'd a noble cavalier:
Because that he transgress'd the seventh command,
They dragg'd him to the stool, there made him stand,
Cloathed in sackcloth, that disgraceful weed,
And a spiritual barber shav'd his head.
With passion mad, thus to be made a jest,
He drew a knife and sheath'd it in his breast,
And, dying left his blood upon the priest.

Tell me, ye priests, why doth there never stand
Upon your stools the nobles of the land?
Is it like cob-webs, which small flies do catch,
But cannot hold the great ones and the rich?
Oh! this is partial in the highest pitch.
The pious tricksters in the days of old,
Grown rich with royal spoils, turn'd fierce and bold,
Compell'd our nobles who did aid their king,
(For loyalty with them's a dangerous thing)
T'abjure the Stewarts title to the crown,
And kirk-men's livery wear, a sackcloth gown;
Mount up the stool to be expos'd to mock,
And bow before Mess John's all conqu'ring cloak,
There hear loud thunders from the pulpit crack,
And wear an antic fool's-coat on their back.

At Scoon, where kings commenc'd their regal toil,
Their sacred fillets wet with Aaron's oil;
Where they the royal purple robes put on,
And in the marble chair receiv'd a crown;
Did royal Charles, the blessed martyr's heir,
In Presbyterian pageantry appear.
On the repenting stool the hero stood,
A spectacle to the admiring crowd;
And to the cruel cloak the sceptre bow'd.
This saucy cloak upbraids the Stewarts race;
And spits its venom in the sovereign's face.
Fanatic fetters held the god-like man,
Thus the prophane, pedantic speech began:
“Sir, openly your sins must be confest,
“Tell you're an hawk of an unkanny nest:
“Your fathers bow'd their knees to Dan and Baal,
“And were a plague unto our Israel,

“Lifting their hands against the Lord of hosts,
“And put the prideful prelates in their posts.
“Are ye sincerely sorry for your sin,
“And all the errors of your Christless kin?
“Will ye the cov'nant's int'rest now betroth,
“And take it for your coronation oath!
“With all your power idolatry withstand,
“Support the reformation work in hand;
“And disappoint your godly peoples fears?
“Or else you'll find your crown, a crown of briers.”

Ye superstitious, bow not to the east,
Nor, when the sermons done, salute the priest.
With awful rev'rence give a lowly bow,
To this exalted stool, the royal pew.
Pay homage to it as a regal chair,
Since sov'reign majesty did once stand there.

My muse relate the eloquence of Cant,
A chief apostle, and the northern saint;
How he rebuk'd one of our antient peers,
An aged sinner sunk with weight of years;
“What look you like, old rotten sinner, say?
“At eighty years you whore, and cannot pray.
“The peer reply'd in language very meek,
“Saint Andrew, I am really like a leek;
“White is my head, and very green my tail,
“I'm made of flesh, and flesh you know is frail.”

Were't not for what poor ignorants sustain,
Who've much of fear and very little brain,
Blyth folk would wish that stools would still remain,
'Tis such diversion when the men stand there,
As Fabius tells the tale with pleasant air;

Bare-headed beadles usher to the seat,
I walk in pomp like minister of state;
When I the solemn sackcloth weed do wear,
And gravely mount the penitential chair,
My gown arrests the eyes of all the flock,
Who mocks the preacher threshing in his cloak;
There I in triumph sit 'bove every Whig,
Adjust my cravat and my campaign-wig;
Spread wide the badge of sin to show my cloaths,
And with a napkin brush my silken hose;

Young lasses whispering, laughing like young apes,
Say, He's a hopeful sinner, see his shapes;
But their mammas, who gave me secret kisses,
Tremble, lest I should tell mess John my misses;
Proclaim in noon-day what I've done in dark,
And point at all the cuckolds in the kirk.
A matron midwife, rocking on her knee
A new born child, looks up and smiles on me;
Methinks I hear the superannuate jade,
Say, Blessings on the man keeps up the trade:
Fy on them! makes him climb that rotten chair,
'Twere fitter far to send our fumblers there.

A scene of objects opens to my view,
Conceal'd from these lock'd in a lower pew;
Sometimes I on the window cast mine eye,
And see a subtile spider pinch a fly,
The feeble warriors combat in the field,
Till the poor captive fly is forc'd to yield,
And the proud victor trails her to his den,
With as much triumph as prevails 'mong men.
Then turning to the pillars, there I read
The honours on th'escutcheous of the dead;
Tall heroes who in battle made a figure,
And trac'd the steps of Presbyterian rigour:
These tatter'd ensigns do their valour prove;
But I'm the living monument of love.
Wearied with ease, my meditation falls,
On texts of scripture, pasted on the walls:
Devoutly I peruse our Saviour's prayer,
Full of amazement that I see it there;
The pious criminal maintains its place,
Altho' expell'd the house with deep disgrace:
I read the ten commands; but one short line,
Makes me soon wish they were reduc'd to nine;
That line makes me stand here, and now Mess John
Knits his stern brow, and with a canting tone,
Acquaints me that my trial's coming on:
A tryal which doth the justiciary mock,
The judge wrapt up in a Geneva cloak.
The scarlet chequer'd with the ermine, shew,
That as they've justice, so they've mercy too:

But O! I tremble, and I scratch my lug,
To be impeach'd before a louse-bare rug.
Round a long table, near the pulpit foot,
Do fifteen elders of the inquest sit;
To show that they the process understand,
Each hath a corpus juris in his hand,
With silver clasps, and fine Geneva notes,
Which they demurely mumble thro' their throats;
A clumsy fiscal in the desk doth stand,
Holding a short indictment in his hand;
The justice general in the holy chair,
Takes it, and reads it, with fanatic air,
Making a long discourse, half preaching and half pray'r,
Repeats my youthful feats in Venus' war,
For which I'm made a pannel at his bar.
I rise, make legs, and bow to all the court,
Some burst with laughter at the pleasant sport;
I pull my napkin out and wipe my cheeks,
As if I wept at every word he speaks:
I wring my fingers, and distort my face,
Which he concludes are certain marks of grace.

Confession made, then doth the judge begin,
T'absolve and purge me from my deadly sin;
Dismiss'd with joy, and reeling down the stair,
I rush to the embraces of my fair.
A roll of sins hath got the clergy's score,
A good encouragement to sin the more;
So honest debtors, when their bills are paid,
For to contract a-new are not afraid.

Nor dare I say that our division's less,
When on the stool appears the buxom Bess,
For anti-nuptial dalliance with her spouse,
Altho' 'twas ratified with marriage vows;
And all the crime she did, was for to eat,
Before Mess John had consecrate the meat.
Both her clean tartan plaid, and gown of gray,
Do native innocence and charms display:
Before her face the gilded bible lay:
Well may she on the sacred pages look,
There's no indictment 'gainst her in that book.

Now, when Mess John has wrestl'd out the glass,
He leers about and blinks on bonny Bess:

Commands her for to lay her plaid aside,
Which from the wanton lads her charms do hide;
She gathers up her limbs, bows with her tail,
Which he must pelt with a spiritual flail.
He tugs his cloak, and then begins the wark,
O Bessy, Bessy, you have a black mark.
An arch wag says, “Mess John, that's 'gainst the law,
“To say the thing is black you never saw.”
Bess Blushes, and she knows not what to say,
All eyes are on her tenement of clay.
The old wives mutter, sure Mess John is dreaming,
Why should not Bess be like to other women.
But Pettigrew goes on to reprimand,
Whilst all the people on their tiptoes stand;
“Was't not the devil did your heart betray,
“Or else you'd keep the feast till the feast day.
“You know the filliest herd lifts off his bonnet,
“Before he takes his cog, and says a sonnet;
“But you threw up your gammonds in the bed,
“Before the grace, and lost your maiden-head.
“Bessy, an unco haste you have been in,
“That could not wait till I my gloves did win;
“I'm sure, 'twas very far from being civil,
“To get your eldest bairn before the devil.”
And thus Mess John goes on to act his play,
Till all the people laugh, and run away.

Thanks to the kirk who thus supports her pow'r,
After the model of the Romish whore.

University of Virginia Library

Rome's Legacy to the Kirk of Scotland; A Satyr on the Stool of Repentance.