The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith :: :: University of Virginia Library

There were three of us, when we took the road,
To warn our folk that the hawks were abroad.
And we met by chance in the market place,
Under the gibbet we thought to grace,
Some day yet, with an honest face.
A black night, I remember me:
The wet wind roared in the creaking tree,
Where the hoarse raven was hard bestead
To balance himself on a dead man's head,
Holding on with claw and beak,
And clapping his wings to the withered cheek
Grimly at each sudden gust.
“Hist!” quoth my neighbour Irwine, “Hist!
To the hornet's nest in the castle rock:
They're stirring now. God help the folk
On the Pentland Hills to-night!”

Quoth I,
At sunset I was hurrying by
St. Giles, when the courier, white with spray
From the bit and flanks of his jaded bay,
Pulled up on his haunches sudden; and forth
Rushed our dry-weasened curate, that came from the north,
And patters the prayers from his painted missal
With a squeaking voice like a penny whistle,
Nodding his wig like a downy thistle.
So I pricked up my ears for news, the while
Our priestling stood with a greasy smile
Wrinkling a countenance sallow with bile.
“Ho! now, sir curate, 'tis our time at last,
And we'll tutor the Whigs to feast or fast,
Or pray with candle and book and bell,
Or any thing likes you in heaven or hell.
Hast heard the news, man? At noon a crew
Of psalm-singing villains beset and slew
The good archbishop on Magus Moor—
Burley and Hackston and some few more—
Answered his prayers with a rascal laugh,
And split his skull with a Jeddart staff.
There's news makes your ears to tingle.—Ho!
What crop-eared dog have we here, I trow
Eavesdropping?” Then I heard a crash,
And there came on my crown a sabreslash;
And the courier galloped along the street.
But that my bonnet was padded, to meet
By-strokes of this sort, I had been dead;
For all that our sucking bishop said,
Was “Now will our dean get the vacant see,
And what may the prospect be for me?”

So, neighbour Irwine, you well may say,
“God be on the Pentland Hills this day.”

We parted then, each with a burden of thought;
As a gust of wind from the castle brought
The din of arms and of clattering hoof
From the rough causeway far aloof;
While the raven croaked his rusty caw,
Cawing over the soldier's law—
It was ever a friend to the raven's maw.
Never another word crossed our lip;
Only we knew by the steadfast grip
Of each other's hand—a certain token—
That each had a matter as yet unspoken.

I was the youngest of all the three;
And they should have left this gear to me.
And I should have told them plainly too
What it was in my heart to do.
But somehow or other that courier's sabre
Rang in my head like a sounding tabor;
And then we were hurried, for two or three
Might not meet, but the devil would be
Right in the midst of them, syne or soon,
In the shape of a curate or dragoon,
To worm the secret out of your head.
Yet I was the youngest, and should have said
Plainly out to them all my will;
And the old man's gray hairs haunt me still—
The weird gray locks, and the withered skin,
And the dark red pool they were dabbled in.
As I say, I was young, and in troth, till of late,
Tippet and rochet, church and state,
Missal and Bible, bishop and priest,
Mitre and altar, fast and feast,
Little recked I of them, better or worse,
If they left me only my hound and horse,
A broad brown moor and a stag to course.
Nay, I had been mettlesome, given to frolic,
And once on a day gave our bishop a colic,
By stately robing our old gray cat
In Episcopal raiment, rochet and hat,
And sending her out to hunt a mouse,
Just as his Lordship left the house.
But my wife Meg—I was courting her then—
Would not hold nor bide from the westland men;
And I never could round a word in her ear,
If I went not with her to pray, and hear
Saintly men in cellars hidden,
And Gospel truth from lips forbidden.
So I followed with never a graver thought,
Till found of Him whom I had not sought;
For, mirthful and meddlesome, God's own grace
Plucked me a brand from the burning place.

Now, there was a rumour that Christ would spread
A table next day by the watershed
Of the Pentland Hills where curlews bred.
And I thought, as I heard the gathering hum,
The trumpet call, and the rolling drum,
The pawing hoof, and the jangling rein,
Up in the castle rock again,—

“They are gathering here for deeds accursed;
They are gathering there with hearts a-thirst
For the water of life; and I must to the road,
And keep the wolf from the lambs of God.
Here's Turner with his hireling loons,
And Clavers'e with his devil's dragoons,
And Grierson o' Lagg and Dalzell o' the Binns,
With the blood of saints on their leprous skins;
And the blood of the bishop on Magus Moor,
Pricking them on for vengeance sure.
And there, by misty glen and rock,
Old men and maidens, the best of the stock
Our land ever bred—be the others who may—
In maud and bonnet they gather to pray.
And God sees all: but the bishop's ghost
Will be in, I fear, at the winning post.”

So I mused down the street, till I reached my own door,
Where I swithered uncertain, a minute or more;
Then I crossed to the other side, hoping to see
My wife busy as wont at her housewifery;
For she had no thought of what was astir,
And it might be the last I should see of her.
Then I took up my stand in a darksome nook,
Where the rain guttered on me, just craving one look
Of her bonny blithe face ere I set to the road,
And to leave her the peace and the blessing of God.
But when I glanced up, where she stood with our child,
Looking wistfully out on the tempest wild,
And hushing the baby that wept on her breast,
And moving about with the strange unrest,
And standing by the window wrapt in light,
And peering out into the darksome night,
I could not abide to part from her so:
Just a word, and a kiss, and then I would go;
No harm could come of a word and a kiss;
And how could I leave her in wretchedness?
But alas! when I found me in her embrace,
And the babe on my knee crowing up in my face,
And the fire blazing cheerily there on the hearth,
And her eyes glancing clear, and the light-hearted mirth
Gleesomely singing about the room,
Blithe as the birds in the early bloom—
I had not the heart to break in on her joy.
So the hours flew by; she cradled the boy
Asleep on her round and dimpled arm,
Asleep on her bosom soft and warm,
And held him up for a parting kiss,
With a look of beaming happiness.
And then with mingled smiles and tears,
She spake of boding thoughts and fears,
Weird dreams and tales and luckless rhymes
Of murdered men in the olden times,
Which haunted her the live-long night;
And she could not get rid of them do what she might;

She had heard them last by her grandam's knee;
And what a foolish thing was she,
To have such silly thoughts of me!
You may be sure I had much to do,
Hearing her speak, to keep steady in view
The thing it was in my heart to do.
And once or twice it was on my tongue;
And once or twice the devil had sung
A pretty lying song in my ear:
But I drowned it quick with a word of prayer.
So the hours flew by till the midnight fell,
And the baby slept, and the mother as well;
And I crept from her side, like a guilty one,
To speed on the work that must be done—
God bless thee, Meg, and the little one!

On the Borough-muir road I had stabled a roan,
With plenty of mettle and plenty of bone;
And just as the lights of morning broke
By fits, like a flame leaping up in the smoke
Of a fresh green log, I was trotting along,
At a great round pace, with a silent throng
Of stars overhead, beheld now and then
Through a rift in the clouds, or a pause in the rain,
A chill eerie night! there was that in its breath
Made you creep, like the air in a room where Death
Is busy at work: and here and there,
Ghostly glimmering through the air,
Phantom-lights were twinkling late,
Quenchless either by wind or wet.
I was troubled at heart; for I thought at times
Of my wife, with her dreams and her luckless rhymes,
That would not go out of her head all night;
And whether she slept till morning light;
And how bitterly there she would weep and moan,
When she waked and found the bird was flown,
And would clasp the child, and be sure that they
Were widow and orphan made this day.
And then my conscience pricked me sore
That I should have been there long hours before.
But I never knew Turner's hireling loons,
Nor any of Claverse's devil-dragoons
Leave the flagon ere break of day,
Till they slept the fumes of the drink away.
So I thought 'twould be hours ere they were astir,
And silently gave my roan the spur,
As she snorted, and pricked her ears forward, and strode
With her long round pace on the plashy road;
Holding on bravely by tower and tree,
By Glencorse water, and Woodhouselee,
And Rullion Green where the battle befell
'Tween the westland folk and the bloody Dalzell.
And I never drew bridle and scarcely drew breath,
For I rode on an errand of life and death,

And I felt as if nought but a galloping pace
Could quiet my mind's uneasiness:
When all of a sudden my good roan steed,
Who never yet failed me in hour of need,
Sprang right from the path, with a cry of quick fear—
A frightened cry and frightful to hear;
While caw, caw, caw! from under her hoof,
The raven lazily rose aloof;
Lazily rose on his broad black wing,
As loth to leave some horrible thing;
And I fell without sense of life or pain
On the brown heath 'mid the plashing rain—
The plashing rain, and the raven black,
Croaking and hopping lazily back.

How long in that stupor dull I lay
By the big white stone, I may not say:
But when I awoke, with senses dim,
And stiff and racked in each joint and limb,
The dawn had brightened into the day,
And the light birds sang on the bending spray,
And the rain-drops hung on the leaves overhead,
And the sunshine on the moorland played,
Like a radiant smile kindling up in a face,
And turning the rude into loveliness.
And there in the sunshine the old man lay,
And the pool was red, and his hair was gray;—
Grisled locks in a pool of blood;
While sleepily gorged the raven stood,
Blinking dull in the golden sun.
And God sees all: and the deed is done;
And the old man's race at length is run.
Too late—too late; my neighbour was dead;
The saints were slain, and the birds were fed;
From east and from west the trooper rode,
And the curate was priest, and the trooper his God;
And the wily informers had scent like a beagle,
And wherever the carcass was there was the eagle;
And the crook and the mitre were serfs to the sword,
And sanctified slaughter with texts from the Word;
And old men and maidens, preacher and people,
From kirk and from kirkyard, from pulpit and steeple,
They must take them to hiding, where hiding is sure,
By the bleak Moffat water or Annandale moor,
To the rocks and the mountains and dens of the earth;
And now in the wilderness all that is worth
Of us, withers and wanes, as the meek and the brave
Wait for the dawn, or look out for a grave.
But I have no part in their struggle or hope,
Though I hear now and then, something faintly, their scope
Whispered low in the ear, as the salt waves pass
And the sea-bird screams on the rocky Bass.
For they found me laid by my neighbour dead,
And they tried me with boots and a cord on my head,
That started the eyes from their pits; but the twine
Wrung not a word from lips of mine.

And the last that I saw of my wife was then
When I witness bore in the sight of men,
And while the crafty lawyers plied me,
The crowd opened up and she stood beside me,
And she held up the boy, with a blush without shame,
Saying—“He shall be proud of his father's name.”

ROTHES

1

What will my wife say now?
She will be mad at our doin's:
Good lass, she'll not swear, but she'll bow
Her knees to the Lord, and avow
We are bringing the glory to ruins.

2

If she would but just rap out an oath,
It would ease her as much as a prayer,
And be very much better for both;
For I don't know how, but I'm loth
To face her meek look of despair;

3

And to know that, all night on her knees,
She will pray for the land and the kirk,
And the crown and the sword and the keys,
And the sinners that sit at their ease,
Forgetting the covenant work.

4

And it's that which drives me to drink;
With less than a bottle or two,
To help me to hiccup and wink,
I'd face a cannon, I think,
Sooner than come in her view.

5

And yet she's a good little saint:
What a knack she has now at praying!
With her texts, and her phrases quaint,
And a voice so low and faint;
And no one to hear what she's saying!

6

Not a soul to hear even a word;
Alone in the dark there at night,
She will keep it up with the Lord;
And I wish just the Archbishop heard
How she prays the old Ethiop white.

7

Ecod! if she knew him as I,
She'd leave him alone in his skin.
Why, lass, he wishes to try
A screw on your thumb by and by,
And his boot on your tight little shin.

8

But, curse him, before he does that
I'd give him an inch of cold steel
Right through the ribs and the fat,
As the man in the Judges gat,
For the good of the commonweal.

9

Who could have told the kite
That I warned your chickens to run?
And he threeped it on me, in spite
Of my swearing black and white,—
Which a gentleman wouldn't have done.

10

O wouldn't you just, my Lord
Archbishop, rejoice to twist
Round my wife's forehead a cord,
And wring from her lips a word
With a wedge on her poor little wrist?

11

And what would you say to a clutch
Of my hand on your lying old throat?
I don't think the land would care much,
Though it found in the Leven such
A pious Archbishop afloat.

12

It's the parson's business to preach
A hell, when we give up our breath;
But you make a hell for each
Who differs from what you teach,
And you don't put it off till death.

13

Still that ugly test must be tried,
A snare and a lie though it be;
For Lauderdale's Bess must hide,
With acres of land and pride,
Her sins and her pedigree.

14

And there will be nice pickings too,
By Jove, for me and the like;
Ay, ay, Bess, the test will do
For me and the Bishop and you,
Rather more than our prayers belike.

15

She's a rare one that for gold!
I wonder how Noll got on
With the jade: she's bought and sold
Fat Lauderdale, foolish and old,
And he can't call his soul his own.

16

Ah! well; but commend me still
To a regular saint for a wife;
For, do what you like, good or ill,
They only just pray for you still,
And sweeten the bitter of life.

17

There's my Anne now; she loves me, I swear,
Though she knows me as bad as the devil;
And when she found out that affair,
She did nothing but offer a prayer
To keep the old sinner from evil.

18

And I've used her rascally bad;
There's no doubt of that, I admit;
And her dear little heart, when it's sad,
No comfort on earth ever had,
But a quiet religious fit.

19

And yet I've agreed to the test
Which the crafty Archbishop may put her;
And I know that she'll only protest,
And pray, and go on like the rest,
With appeals to the Lord and the future.

20

Why can't she be still, and content
With her preachings, her psalms, and her prayers,
And to live like a sweet little saint,
And leave me to judge what is meant
By the things which they tell her are snares?

21

And where is the text and the line
For thus causing domestic strife?
Is there Father, or Pope, or Divine
Who will say that her God should be mine,
And that man should give in to his wife?

22

Ah! well, but it's true, I have none,
Or nothing to speak of at least;
And I'd rather she prayed there alone
For a change in my heart of stone,
Than chose me old Sharpe for her priest.

23

And they shan't touch a hair of her head,
While I have a hand and a dirk:
Bishop! ay, he's a Bishop we made
To bless all the blood that we shed,
And to rule in the devil's own kirk.

24

Ho! bring me a bottle of sack:
Is my lady waiting upstairs?
Say—I'm off and can hardly be back,
Say—I'm searching the pedlar's pack,
Say—I'm gone, if you like, to my prayers.

25

I can't see her face to-night;
I am sure she suspects what is doing;
And then things get wind; and they slight
Me at council, and say in their spite
That I bring all their plans unto ruin.

26

Now, I will see nobody till
I shall be as drunk as a lord,—
And then I'll see nobody still;
But the parson may go, if he will,
Unless he would stretch a hemp cord.

27

He's been with her all day, and he's gruff,
Yet a gentleman too, of his kind,
With good blood in him, and stuff
To make a good fellow enough
If he had not a twist in his mind.

28

Say, I don't want his blood on my head,
And am very much needing his prayers,
As I mean to go drunk to my bed,
And am apt to be wild in the head,
If I find anybody upstairs.

29

It's a dreary place that den
Between the Lomonds bleak;
But better for ghostly men
The ghostly and eerie glen
Than to hear the gallows creak.

30

Let the Archbishop gloom as he will;
Let Lauderdale rant and swear;
I've but kept them from doing some ill,
And we'll all have our nice pickings still,
When we ask them to vow and declare.

PEDEN THE PROPHET

1

Ah! woe for the Lamb's dear Bride!
And woe for this covenant-land!
Compassed on every side
With hate and treason and pride,
And feeble in heart and hand;
The Lord will His wrath command
On a faithless land and Bride.

2

Dark is the day; but worse
The night that is drawing near,
With Death on his pale white horse,
And the dead lying hid in the gorse,
And floating in river and mere,
While the streets of the city appear
Red with the blood of the corse.

3

I see the lean dogs creeping
To their feast in the lone dark street;
I see the foul birds leaping
To the house where a child is sleeping
On a mother's bosom sweet—
But her heart hath ceased to beat;
And the foul birds are croaking and leaping.

4

And we've not seen the worst of it yet;
And I wot not whether I may,
Though I sought the Lord, when we met
Near the black Moffat water, to get
Just a blink of light on my way,
And to know if I should play
The man, in the worse times yet.

5

But he said, “Content ye now,
You shall be where I think best”:
“Yea, Lord,” quoth I, “but Thou
Knowest I never did bow
To Baal with the rest,
Nor took the black, false test”:
But he said, “Content ye now.”

6

I was sitting alone on the hill
By a thunder-blasted tree,
Where a corby had gorged his fill
Of a lamb that was lying ill;
And in the red light he
Stood winking drowsily,
With the blood and fat on his bill.

7

The gray, cold mist was creeping
At gloaming over the hill,
The whaup in the stank was sleeping,
And the lonesome heron keeping
Its watch where the pool was still,
And slow and gray and chill
The gloaming mist was creeping.

8

Then I saw, as plain as eye
Could see, the veil uplift,
And the dark years sweeping by
In terror and misery—
Dark years, with never a rift
In the cloud of blackness, swift
Went sweeping gloomily by.

9

Airds Moss was nought but a ploy,
And the Pentlands only a jest,
And Bothwell Brig was a toy,
And the Highland raid a joy;
For East shall cry to West,
And the dead shall seem to be blest,
And all the past but a ploy.

10

I saw the trooper ride,
With the blood on his bridle hand,
Down by the Solway tide,
And over the banks of Clyde;
I saw o'er all the land
The gruesome gibbet stand,
And the godless trooper ride.

11

Silent the song of labour;
And the clap of the mill was dumb;
Hushed were the pipe and the tabor;
And only the clash of the sabre
Rang to the fife and the drum,
As the red troopers come,
Trampling the fields of our labour.

12

The maid with her milking pail
Wept at the empty byre;
Dazed and eerie and pale,
The husbandman with his flail,
Stood by the smouldering pyre,
As the wild red sparks of fire
Blazed up in the rising gale.

13

Wailing down in the glen,
Weeping up on the hill,
A cry from the cities of men,
And the cleft of the rock and the den;
For the dead lay unburied, until
The time and half time fulfil
The word of the Lord of men.

14

There was none to woo or to wed,
There was none to speak of cheer,
There was none to lift up the head,
As the land sat down with its dead—
Sat down in the dust with fear,
While the Baal-priests drew near,
And mocked at the bowed-down head.

15

Labour, and pleasure, and faith,
All of them were forgot,
And men held in their breath
At the ghastly riot of death;
For terror did quite besot
Even them who had wrestled and fought
Hitherto in the hope of the faith.

16

I saw it all, and I think
The Lord hath shown to me
Sometimes, a wonderful blink
Of things beyond the brink
Of the dark futurity,—
Even more than I want to see;
But it's all for your good, I think.

17

You call me a prophet, and
Maybe I am, indeed,
All the prophet a land
That hath broken its covenant band,
Either shall get or need—
And yet but a shaking reed
In a dreary desert land.

18

Sometimes I'm tempted sore
To say, Lord, let me be
As blind as others or more;
And sometimes I've thought, before,
It was but guessing in me,
And nothing of prophecy,—
Shrewd guessing, and nothing more.

19

So the Tempter will sift me like wheat,
Till I say to him, Get thee behind!
Or trample him under my feet:—
And bless me not when you meet,
For it's not all blessing, I find;
Yea, I had liefer be blind,
When Satan will sift me like wheat.

20

And guess or grace, I am sure
There are dark days near at hand
For the Lord's afflicted poor
And the Lamb's bride to endure,
In a waste and weary land,
From gaol and gibbet and brand,
And the trooper's vengeance sure.

21

For if God ever spoke to me,
It was just that night on the hill,
As I sat by the blasted tree,
And the gray mists eerily
Crept, ghostly and slow and chill,
And the corby gorged his fill,
As the word was given to me.

OLD GREYFRIARS

1

All of us from the western shires,
Fifteen hundred men,
They marched us into the Old Greyfriars,
About the stroke of ten:
Hungry and wounded and worn and weary,
We wist it was but for a night
That they marched us into the kirkyard eerie,
In the dusky evening light.

2

A bonny kirkyard is the Old Greyfriars,
When the wallflower blooms in June,
And scatters its scent with the fresh sweetbriar's
Under the glint of the moon:
And we ranged us on the green grass there,
Or under the ivy-tod,
And raised our psalm and offered our prayer
To Jacob's mighty God.

3

But long ere the dank November day,
When the earth was sodden with rain,
And the chill fog clung where the long grass lay
Rotting with damp amain,
Of all who came from the western shires,
The fifteen hundred men,
Had you reckoned us well in the Old Greyfriars,
Not three were there for ten.

4

There were some that died in the summer tide,
Rotting away like sheep;
There were some went mad with the visions they had,
Between awake and asleep;
And some were traitors to the faith,
And signed their hope away—
Better for them had they met their death
On Bothwell Brig that day.

5

O Bothwell Brig! that wert so big
With hope to us and more;
O Bothwell Brig! the westland whig
May well thy name deplore.
And ye who would guide the stormy tide,
Think well ere ye begin;
For ye scrupled away our lives that day,
Ere we the bridge could win.

6

It's oh for courage! and oh for sense!
And a Joab with the host!
That we may stand on our sure defence,
Ere yet the day be lost.
Here were we from the western shires,
Good fifteen hundred men;
And reckon us now in the Old Greyfriars,
There are not three for ten.

THE CONFESSION OF ANNAPLE GOWDIE, WITCH

1

Annie Winnie and me
Were both at Yester kirk;—
She on a broom, and I on a straw,
“Horse and hattock” o'er North Berwick Law
We rode away in the mirk.

2

It was Fastern's Even,
And we lichted down on a grave,
Where an ape preached loud to a ghostly crowd,
Surpliced well with a bonny white shroud,
And a corby sang the stave.

3

“The covin” all was there;
Thirteen of us with “the maid”;—
She was Bessie Vickar from Kelvin side;
And wow! but she hotched in her unco pride—
Deil thraw her neck for a jade.

4

And there was Pickle-the-wind,
And there was Over-the-dyke,
And Ailie Nesbit, Able-and-stout,
And Elspie Gourlay, Good-at-a-bout;
Buzzing all like a byke.

5

Black Jock was in his tantrums;
And hech! but he was daft!
Alick Flett, with his chanter het,
Fizzing whenever his lips it met,
Skirled away in the laft.

6

Oh, we were crouse and canty
A' doon in Yester kirk,
And we supped on the toad and the hooded craw,
Daintily spread on a coffin braw,
At midnight in the mirk.

7

And syne we held a session,
And tried the lassies there;
Twal gruesome carles were elders good,
And a black tom-cat for bethral stood,
And the foul fiend took the chair.

8

And Elspie Gourlay first
Confessed to a strangled bairn;
And Bessie Vickar allowed that she
Whummled a boat in a quiet sea,
With a bonny young bride in the stern,

9

And some had played their cantrips
Wi' poor wives' milking kine;
And one had made an image good,
And crucified it on holy rood,
That the Laird's ae son micht pine.

10

But me and Annie Winnie,
The foul thief kissed us baith;
For we choked the priest on the Eucharist
When he was glowering at Effie M'Christ,
And speaking of holy faith.

11

Hech! sirs, but we had grand fun
Wi' the muckle black deil in the chair,
And the muckle Bible upside doon,
A' gangin' withershins roun' and roun',
And backwards saying the prayer;

12

About the warlock's grave
Withershins gangin' roun',
And kimmer and carline had for licht
The fat o' a bairn they buried that nicht,
Unchristened beneath the moon.

13

And, when the red cock crew
In the farmstead up on the hill,
And the black tom-cat began to mew,
Witch and warlock, away we flew
In the morning gray and chill.

14

And my gudeman was sleeping,
Wi' the besom at his side,
And hech! but he kissed the bonny broom,
My braw gudeman, my auld bridegroom,
As I lichted doon frae my ride.

15

And Annie Winnie and me
Crack crouse o' Yester kirk,
And how she on the broom and I on a straw,
“Horse and hattock” o'er North Berwick Law
Rode away in the mirk.

16

But what if it all was a dream
Of things I had heard before,
And I only said what they wished to be said,
When they twisted the cord round my old gray head
Till flesh could bear no more?

THE COMPLAINT OF DEACON BIRSE,

Burgess, Aberdeen

1

A plague on their kirks and their covenants both!
And their preachings long and rife!
I wot not how many a test and oath
I have ta'en for a quiet life.
First I must swear to Master Cant,
And then to the Solemn League;
And then they would have me both recant,
And join some other intrigue.

2

I've sworn at their bidding black and white,
And signed and sealed and declared;
I've boxed the compass round outright,
And the feint a boddle I cared;
And I hardly know what I am to-day,
Or what was the last I swore;
But hey! for the friar of orders gray!
He's ready to clear my score.

3

A plague on them all—their mitre and bishop,
Their presbyter and their Book!
Can't they leave me alone to barrel my fish up?
And hang my pot on the crook?
A bonny kirk! as poor as a rat,
And hungry as ever a beagle,
A brat that an imp of the devil begat,
The Protestant wallydraigle!

4

I want to trade in timber and hide,
And salmon from the Dee,
And the bonny white pearls from Ythan side,
And the herring that crowds the sea;
For silk to busk my lady fine,
Or brandy in the flask,
Or a drop of the kindly claret wine,
Or malvoisie in the cask.

5

I've a lugger good with Tarland wood
For Flushing ready to sail;
And my dainty smack, by the almanac,
Should be home from Portingale;
But what with their kirk and their covenant work,
Hardly a wind blows right;
And we'll never have luck till the ancient kirk
Comes to her own some night.

6

That's a vintage coming from Portingale,
Will make old Rothes smack;
And the tippling Chancellor pays me well,
When he sends me a cargo back—
A cargo of canting preachers for't,
To sell in the new plantation;
Hee! they set me once in a sackcloth shirt
To win my soul's salvation.

7

A plague on them all! but they won't grow fat
In my old schooner's hold,
With a skipper who knows what I would be at,
And who likes the chink of the gold.
And, if some of them happen to die on the way,
Who forced their oaths down my throat;
It's hey! for the friar of orders gray
Who assoilzies me all for a groat.

MARION BROWN'S LAMENT

1

“What think you now of your braw goodman?”
Ah! woe is me!
My heart was high when I began,
My heart was high, and my answer ran,
“More than ever he is to me.”

2

Mickle thought I of my bridegroom brave,
Ah! woe is me!
Mickle I thought of him douce and grave,
When he waled me out among the lave,
Me, a poor maiden, his wife to be.

3

But there on the greensward lying dead,
Ah! woe is me!
As I laid on my lap his noble head,
And kissed the lips that for Jesus bled,
More than ever he was to me.

4

My heart was high when I began,
Ah! woe is me!
I was so proud of my brave goodman,
Never a tear from my eyelids ran,
Although they gathered in my e'e.

5

But when I laid him on his bed,
Ah! woe is me!
And spread the face-cloth over his head,
And sat me down beside my dead,
O but my heart grew sair in me.

6

Weary and eerie the night went by,
Ah! woe is me!
Dark and cold, and so was I,
And aye the wind moaned drearily
Over the moor, and back to me.

7

And aye as I looked at the empty chair,
Ah! woe is me!
And the Book that he left open there,
And the text that bade me cast my care
On the Father of all that cared for me;

8

And aye as my Mary and little Will,
Ah! woe is me!
Whispered, Father is sleeping still,
And hush! for Minnie is weary and ill,
My heart was like to break in me.

9

It's well for men to be heroes grand;
Ah! woe is me!
But a woman's hearth is her country, and
A desolate home is a desolate land;
And he was all the world to me.

M'KAIL'S FAREWELL

1

Farewell, my friends, and parents dear;
And weep not o'er my bloody bier,
For grace and glory triumph here.

2

Farewell, my foes; I pray for you;
Shew mercy, Lord, for Thou art true;
Alas! they know not what they do.

3

Farewell, thou earth, where I have trod,
And seen the wondrous ways of God,
With comfort of His staff and rod.

4

Farewell, ye sun and moon and stars,
And planets pale, and fiery Mars,
And comets dire, foreboding wars:

5

Star-pavement of His house are ye,
Shining in glorious majesty.
But soon beneath my feet to be.

6

Farewell, thou Book of grace divine,
So loved and pondered every line,
Book of the world's best hope and mine:

7

Soon, face to face, I'll see with awe
The gospel truth and holy law,
Which yet as in a glass I saw.

8

And farewell, Church, the Lamb's dear Bride,
Whose garments now with blood are dyed,
With blood, too, washed and purified;

9

And farewell, time; I part with thee,
And welcome immortality,
And incorrupted life to me.

10

Mortal, immortal now, to Him,
Who sits between the cherubim,
I sing the everlasting hymn—

11

“Worthy the Lamb for us that died,
With crown of thorn and wounded side,
Despised, rejected, crucified.”

12

I hear the strain, and would away
To them who neither preach nor pray,
But praise for ever, night and day.

13

Farewell, I step on that bright shore;
My weary pilgrimage is o'er,
And welcome home for evermore.