 | The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith |  |
BURLEIGH ON MAGUS MOOR
The turncoat! the traitor!
We sent him to London to plead our cause,
And our Covenant band with the Allcreator,
And the rights that are ours by our ancient laws,
And lo! he comes back with a mitred head,
False to all he had sworn and said.
We sent him to London to plead our cause,
And our Covenant band with the Allcreator,
And the rights that are ours by our ancient laws,
And lo! he comes back with a mitred head,
False to all he had sworn and said.
595
My Lord, the Archbishop!
That's how they usher his Grace now in,
For our clerical cooks are fain to dish up
The Pope's old orders of pride and sin.
No doubt, he will be Cardinal soon—
Cardinal Judas! the crafty loon!
That's how they usher his Grace now in,
For our clerical cooks are fain to dish up
The Pope's old orders of pride and sin.
No doubt, he will be Cardinal soon—
Cardinal Judas! the crafty loon!
Oh, he was to have brought us
Times of peace from a gracious King;
Only trust him, so he besought us,
And we should have grateful songs to sing
For a quiet land, and a faithful Kirk
Cheerfully doing its Master's work.
Times of peace from a gracious King;
Only trust him, so he besought us,
And we should have grateful songs to sing
For a quiet land, and a faithful Kirk
Cheerfully doing its Master's work.
But our troubles and sorrows
Are harder than ever they were before,
And dark as to-day's are, darker to-morrow's,
With lies in the air, and spies at the door;
For the boot and the thumbkin and the rack
Are all that his graceless Grace brought back.
Are harder than ever they were before,
And dark as to-day's are, darker to-morrow's,
With lies in the air, and spies at the door;
For the boot and the thumbkin and the rack
Are all that his graceless Grace brought back.
It is fine and prison
If we meet on a moor to hear the truth,
Braving the blasts of a stormy season
Rather than prophets that prophesy smooth;
And it is a gibbet, if we withstand
A cornet of horse and his swearing band.
If we meet on a moor to hear the truth,
Braving the blasts of a stormy season
Rather than prophets that prophesy smooth;
And it is a gibbet, if we withstand
A cornet of horse and his swearing band.
We have loved freedom,
And for its sake have fought and bled,
Faced proud armies, and did not heed them,
Holding our own among dying and dead;
And now shall we tamely cower before
Lawyers and Priests that scourge us sore?
And for its sake have fought and bled,
Faced proud armies, and did not heed them,
Holding our own among dying and dead;
And now shall we tamely cower before
Lawyers and Priests that scourge us sore?
List! Rathillet,
Hear you his Lordship's six-horsed coach
Bearing him on to his well-earned billet,
With an out-runner heralding his approach—
Strange are the ways of heaven and grim,
For we did not come here to ambush him.
Hear you his Lordship's six-horsed coach
Bearing him on to his well-earned billet,
With an out-runner heralding his approach—
Strange are the ways of heaven and grim,
For we did not come here to ambush him.
It was for another
We waited, one of his hateful tools,
Who tries all the arts of hell to smother
The truth in Fife, where he sits and rules
With the boot for our bones, and a rope for our breath,
In the name of this high Arch-priest of death.
We waited, one of his hateful tools,
Who tries all the arts of hell to smother
The truth in Fife, where he sits and rules
With the boot for our bones, and a rope for our breath,
In the name of this high Arch-priest of death.
The Lord hath delivered
The traitor into our hand this day,
And he who is slack at the work hath severed
Himself from the cause, for which good men pray—
You've a private quarrel, Rathillet, I know,
But you'll stand by our deed, though you deal not a blow.
The traitor into our hand this day,
And he who is slack at the work hath severed
Himself from the cause, for which good men pray—
You've a private quarrel, Rathillet, I know,
But you'll stand by our deed, though you deal not a blow.
So we grouped on the moorland,
Pledged and sworn to the fell, stern deed,
And smote the old man with a swift and sure hand,
And saw the gashed wounds on him gape and bleed—
'Twas a public work, and every one there
Had to thrust in his weapon, and take his share.
Pledged and sworn to the fell, stern deed,
And smote the old man with a swift and sure hand,
And saw the gashed wounds on him gape and bleed—
'Twas a public work, and every one there
Had to thrust in his weapon, and take his share.
| The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith | |