 | Lyrical Poems |  |
BOOK I.CLIO.
Cost Scotland blood, cost Scotland tears!
But Faith sealed Freedom's sacred cause;
If thou'rt a slave indulge thy sneers.—Burns.
THE TWO MEEK MARGARETS.
The brutal and unfeeling martyrdom of Margaret Wilson and Margaret M'Lauchlan on the eleventh of May 1685 will remain for ever in the minds of the Scottish people, as a memorial of that perverse and pig-headed generation of crowned formalists, who employed themselves for more than a ccntury in forcing Episcopacy upon a people essentially Presbyterian. See Macaulay, ch. iv. I have followed Wodrow.
When the trees were greenly growing,
That a captain grim went down to the brim
O' the sea, when the tide was flowing.
Wi' his red-coat loons behind him,
Twa meek-faced maids, and he sware that he
In the salt sea-swell should bind them.
Came down, full sad and cheerless,
To see that ruthless captain drown
These maidens meek, but fearless.
What crime all crimes excelling,
That they should be staked on the ribbed sea-sand,
And drowned, where the tide was swelling?
Their crime was the crime of believing
Not man, but God, when the last false Stuart
His Popish plot was weaving.
No! no!—to a stake he hath bound them,
Where the floods as they flow, and the waves as they grow,
Shall soon be deepening round them.
Far out on the sand they bound her,
Where the first dark flow of the waves as they grow
Is quickly swirling round her.
More near to the land they bound her,
That she might see by slow degree
The grim waves creeping round her.
She's deep in the deepening water!
No! no!—she's lifted her hands to pray,
And the choking billow caught her!
The wave shall soon ride o'er thee!
She's swamped in the brine whose sin was like thine;
See that same fate before thee!
When His life for sins He offered;
In one of His members, even He
With that meek maid hath suffered.
She's a loyal farmer's daughter!
Well, well! let her swear to good King James,
And I'll hale her out from the water!
But I pray for the head of the nation,
That he and all, both great and small,
May know God's great salvation!
And felt the greedy water,
Deep and more deep, around her creep,
Till the choking billow caught her!
The truth o' this waesome story;
But God will sinners to judgment bring,
And His saints shall reign in glory.
ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF JAMES RENWICK.
James Renwick, the last of the noble
Scottish band of protesters for liberty of conscience, suffered martyrdom in the Grassmarket
of Edinburgh in the month of February 1688. This pure-minded, generous, and intrepid
youth, of whom the then world of hirelings and time-servers was not worthy, publicly
declared and subscribed the great principle of the Revolution of 1688, at a time when the
majority of the best public men of that day were only beginning to dream of its possibility.
Eternal honour to his name, the brave, the heroic, the unsullied! When our petty squabbles of
Church politics shall have passed away from the hearing of Time, as a shallow din of tinkling
cymbals, the name of Renwick shall live in the thoughts of the philosophical historian, as one
of the greatest of the great.
Are often those of whom the noisy world
Hears least.” Renwick was born in Glencairn, Dumfriesshire, near the beautiful little village of Minnyhive, where a neat little monument has recently been erected to his memory.
But not with mist or rack that skirs the sky.
The violent rule; the godless man holds sway;
The young, the pure, the innocent must die!
Weep, Scotland, weep! thy moors are sad to-day,
Thy plaided people walk with tearful eye.
For why? He dies upon a gallows-tree
Who boldly blew God's trump for Freedom and for thee!
And will be so again; yet must we weep!
High on red thrones the blushless and the bold
Hold state; the meek are bound in dungeons deep.
Wolves watch the pen; the lion robs the fold,
While on soft down the hireling shepherds sleep.
Pass free from knave to fool, but Christ's true prophet dies.
In aspect meek, but firm as rock in soul;
By pious parents nursed, and holy line,
To steer by truth, as seamen by the pole.
In Holland's learned halls the word divine
He read, which to proclaim he made the whole
Theme of his life; then back to Scotland came,
At danger's call, to preach in blessed Jesus' name.
Planted to trap him; but he 'scaped their snare.
To the brown hills and glens of Kyle he hies,
And with a stedfast few finds refuge there.
On the black bogs, and 'neath the inclement skies,
In rocky caves, on mist-wreathed mountains bare,
The youthful prophet voiced God's tidings good,
As free as Baptist John by Jordan's sacred flood.
To sing God's praise upon a purple hill
One unbought soul assert a manly will,
And with his own hands from those fountains draw,
Which sophists troubled with pretentious skill
To make them clearer; as if God's own plan
For fining human dross must beg a stamp from man!
To hunt God's plaided saints from every nook;
And from a court of bravoes and poltroons
Goes forth the law which takes the blessed book
From the free shepherds' hands, that hireling loons
May spell it to a sense that kings may brook.
Far raged o'er heath and hill the despot's sword,
But faithful Renwick preached, and owned no human lord.
With John, and, at the gate called Beautiful,
Healed the lame man, and stirred the spiteful mood
Of priest and high-priest, holding haughty rule;
Witless! who weened that God's apostles should
With human law and lawyers go to school:
With firm unfaltering faith, God and not man obeyed.
Nithsdale, Glencairn, Sanquhar, and founts of Ken,
Free pilgrim feet o'er perilous pathways fare,
To hear young Renwick preach in treeless glen;
And mothers bring their new-born babes, to bear
Baptismal blessings from his touch; and when
Fearless he flings the glowing word abroad,
Full many a noble soul is winged with fire from God.
False Law, the smooth pretender of the Right,
That still to knaves a sharp-edged tool hath been,
To give a fair name to usurping Might!
By Law round noble Hamilton, I ween,
The faggot blazed to feed proud Beaton's spite;
And now when Scotland's best, to please the Pope
And Romish James, must die—'tis Law that knots the rope!
The knave to trap the saint! Your work is done.
And lawless Law kills Scotland's purest son.
The grey Grassmarket heard him preach to-day,
On the red scaffold's floor. His race is run.
Now kings and priests, with brave light-hearted joy,
May drain their cups, nor fear that bold truth-speaking boy!
Frail stands the throne, whose props are glued with gore;
For a short hour the godless man holds sway,
And Justice whets her knife at Murder's door.
Weep, Scotland! but let noble Pride this day
Beam through thine eye with sorrow streaming o'er;
For why?—Thy Renwick's dead, whose noble crime
Gave Freedom's trumpet breath, an hour before the time!
LINES WRITTEN IN WIGTON CHURCHYARD.
The churchyard of Wigton is beautifully situated on a rising ground overlooking the lovely bay of Wigton. Immediately south of the town the river Bladnoch flows into the bay, at the mouth of which the two Margarets were drowned by the brutal dragoons of James II. The inscription on the tombs of the martyrs still exhibits the old inscription in characters particularly fresh and clear. On a rising ground behind the town an obelisk has very recently been erected in memory of the martyr maidens.
Nursest the pride that worth may claim,
Come here; and let no Southron blame
Thy free-shed sorrow
O'er martyrs' graves, whence our true fame
And strength we borrow!
Who for their country's freedom bled;
No bannered hatchments overspread
These grave-stones hoary;
But tears with sacred virtue shed
Keep green their glory.
Strong, but more strong Scotch hearts were found,
When to the cruel stake were bound
Stout Galloway's daughters,
And for dear Christ, his love, were drowned
In briny waters.
When truth thee binds and holy vow!
For thee no trumpet blows, I trow,
Nor chariot rattles;
But Love, throned on thy constant brow,
Wins blameless battles.
Strachan and Winram, Grierson, Graham!
On hangman's hest unblest ye came
To Wigton waters,
And staked i' the swelling tide—O shame!
Her high-souled daughters!
And cast to the devouring flood,
The Pope's crowned minion
Spurned, when uncalled he dared intrude
On Christ's dominion!
Not for their sakes who so did die,
But, 'fore the righteous God on high,
To find expression,
For burning hate of tyranny,
And damned oppression!
For pomp of dainty prelacy;
But, while we read with streaming eye
These grave-stones hoary,
We'll train stout hearts to live and die
For Christ, His glory.
A SONG OF CARDINAL BEATON.
—See Knox's History, vol. i. p.173, whom I have closely followed. The deed celebrated in the text took place in the year 1546. That it was not a murder in the criminal sense of the word, but a just retribution for wicked deeds, besides being politically a wise act, no impartial thinker can doubt. Beaton was a man who intruded into the Church of Christ, as his greatest admirers admit, from purely ambitious and worldly motives; and being seated in the seat of the Holiest, this godless and cruel man used his unsanctified power for the purpose of persecuting and annihilating the only men then existing who were faithfully preaching the truth of God in this land. In the eye of Heaven, Beaton was a traitor and a murderer. He murdered Wishart; and if he was murdered himself afterwards, he had no more right to complain than any other mortal who has been made to feel the eternal justice of that text, “Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed”. The talk about Law and Legitimate authority in such cases may amuse the shallow and console the coward; but it has no meaning to the consistent thinker. Those who talk with a pious horror of assassination ought to bear in mind, that when wolves in sheep's clothing exercise open force over the sheep, there is nothing for the faithful shepherd but to use secret force, when opportunity offers. The magistrate has no right to bear the sword in support of injustice; nor do Cardinals enjoy any sacred privilege to dye their stockings purple in the blood of just men. As to the policy of the act there can be no doubt. Beaton was the most talented and the most energetic captain of injustice and advocate of lies in those days; and his death gave the Reformation room to breathe and to grow, which otherwise might have been crushed under the squelch of his ruthless foot.
'Twixt the morning grey, and the midnight hour,
And he dreamt of his leman, a lady fine,
Who mingled sweet phrase with the sparkling wine,
Whispering, whispering, daintily so—
“Cardinal Beaton to Rome shall go,
And wear the tiara, my priestly joe!”
The Cardinal heard her sweet lips' flow,
But he did not hear the chorus wild,
That moaned through the night, with words not mild,
With Cardinal Beaton, the Pope's proud knight,
Who murdered Wishart, the godly wight!
Down—down—down—to hell
With the Pope and Cardinal Beaton!
When the sun rose bright in the morning hour,
But he heard strange sounds through the fumes of his wine.
He heard a clatter, he heard a fall,
He heard a clink, and an angry call,
He heard a shout that rent the air,
And he heard the tramp of a foot on the stair:
But he did not hear the words of Fate,
Deep-muttered from hell's black yawning gate,
With Cardinal Beaton, whose haughty spite
Murdered Wishart, the godly wight!
Down—down—down—to hell
With the Pope and Cardinal Beaton!
Who's there?—They've ta'en thy palace of pride!
He ran to the postern-gate; but, lo!
It was bolted and barred, and watched by the foe!
Behind his chamber-door he made
With chests and benches a barricade;
But with smoking coals and wreathed flame
They stormed the door,—and in they came!
The grim death-chant of the vengeful Fate,
With blood-stained Beaton, whose haughty spite
Murdered Wishart, the godly wight!
Down—down—down—to hell
With the Pope and Cardinal Beaton!
He fell. They held their daggers bare.
O spare me! spare my life! Shall I,
A priest, be butchered?—fie! fie! fie!
Full well we know that thou art a priest,
A murderer foul, and a lecherous beast!
They stabbed him once, and they stabbed him twice,
And his soul went out, when they stabbed him thrice:
And he heard in his ears, as in darkness he fell,
The Chorus of judgment with rending yell,
Thou blood-stained Beaton, whose hand did smite
The gentle Wishart, the godly wight!
Blood cries for blood, in the nethermost hell,
With the Pope and Cardinal Beaton!
SUNDAY AT ETTRICK KIRK.
I recommend all persons who visit Abbotsford and Melrose To go on to Selkirk, from whence a pleasant pastoral walk of some twenty miles will take them up to the mountain church of Ettrick, where the famous theologian Thomas Boston lies buried. The scenery is full of green, quiet beauty, of a character very similar to the lovely vale of Newlands, between Buttermere and Derwentwater, in the Lake country.
When I was young, and lived on books,
Upon his grave theology,
With earnest heart and sober looks,
Drew out the sleepy morn; nor now
Hold cheap that form of close-linked truths,
Which I did meekly then allow
Sneer, and will sneer; but Calvin's plan
With Scottish temper nicely fits,
To form the iron-purposed man,
Fearing nor frowns, nor smiles, nor tears
Of man, and to light Pleasure's bands
Who sternly stops his practised ears.
Belike may breed soft faiths; but, while
The thistle in his cap he wears,
For Calvin's creed on Scottish soil
I'll pray this day with faith sincere,
And worship with the plaided men,
Who Boston's godly fame revere.
Quaint arch, and curious-pillared tower,
No painted lights to charm the eyes;
Here men both preach and pray with power.
Roll through long aisle or vaulted hall,
The broad-browed shepherd, with grave rhymes
From lusty heart on God doth call.
No cushioned creed for ladies fine;
No silken priest, in dainty ear
Smoothly to lisp the sleepy line.
Whom our firm Fathers knew with fear,
Make thou my heart the chaste abode
Of faith, strong, manly, and severe!
JOHN FRAZER.
I took this story from Simpson's Traditions of the Covenanters, a well-known book, which, notwithstanding some faults of literary execution, gives the reader, by mere accumulation of similar cases, a more vivid idea of the bloody times of tyrannous Episcopacy in Scotland than the most elegant pages of Macaulay. The farm of Dalquhairn is beautifully situated in the mountain solitude, on the hill road between Sanquhar and Carsphairn. The whole of that country is sacred to the memory of our brave peasants, the untitled heroes of
Whose echo rings in Scotland to this hour.” Happy the man who can drink the breezy mountain air in these green solitudes, and seek for no other company than the memory of these plaided protesters!
Who dwelt in lone Dalquhairn,
Where huge hills feed the founts of Ken,
'Twixt Sanquhar and Carsphairn.
With harlots and buffoons
He filled his court, and scoured the hills
With troopers and dragoons.
When, free on heather braes,
Their hearts would brim with an holy hymn
To their great Maker's praise.
And he bade his troopers ride
Up dale and dell, by crag and fell,
And snow-wreathed mountain side.
When the snow was drifting down,
John Frazer sate by his ingle-side
With his good wife Marion.
O' the kirk, and the kirk's concerns,
Of hair-breadth 'scapes in thousand shapes,
And they spake o' their bonnie bairns.
The Devil's own errand loons!
They've lifted the latch, and there they stand,
Six striding stark dragoons!
Too late to turn and flee!
To-morrow thou'lt dance thy latest jig,
High on a gallows-tree!
As hard as they were able:
Then took him where their horses stood,
And locked him in the stable.
The sorrowful gudewife pour
The stout brown ale—for well they knew
She kept a goodly store.
The stout brown ale brought she;
They filled and quaffed, and quaffed and filled,
And talked with boisterous glee.
And told in jeering strain
How God's dear saints were seized and bound,
And hounded o'er the main.
That made the gudewife turn pale;
But she smoothed her face with a decent grace,
And still she poured the ale.
And still they cursed and swore:
The clock struck twelve! the clock struck one!
And still they cried for more.
She broached her ripest store:
The clock struck two! the clock struck three!
And still the gudewife did pour.
Now mount and grip the reins, boys!
It suits not well that a bold dragoon
Should drink away his brains, boys!
Went reeling to the stable;
Their steeds bestrode, and off they rode
As fast as they were able.
And to the stable ran,
And looked, and looked, till in a nook
She found her own gudeman!
A mighty work this day
The Lord hath done!—the stout brown ale
Hath stol'n their wits away.”
And cut the thongs in tway;
“Now run, gudeman, and save thy life!
They'll be back by break o' day!”
For oft for his life ran he—
And lurked in the hills, till God cast down
King Charles and his company.
Went James with his Popish loons,
How God by stout brown ale did save
His life from the drunk dragoons.
A SONG OF SCOTTISH HEROES.
The title of this song suggests to me the propriety of stating, in a few short sentences, the grounds on which, as a philosophical student of history—for no one will suspect me of partizanship—I am convinced that the Covenanters, who have been so liberally abused by all sorts of fashionable writers, are the only true heroes of the Scottish history of the seventeenth century; and that all attempts to put the Cavaliers in their place must issue in ridiculous discomfiture.
(1.) It is quite certain, according to the New Testament and the practice of the first centuries, that the Church of Christ does not mean the clerical order, but it means emphatically and prominently the Christian people, the assembly, the congregation, the body of the faithful.
(2.) The Christian people, as such, have an inherent, divine, and inalienable right to act in religious matters according to the free verdict of their conscience, and not to be coerced into creeds or forms of worship by any extrinsic power, clerical or secular.
(3.) Any distinct association of human beings, composing what we call a nation, and professing Christianity, is entitled to follow the conscience of the majority in making a national confession of faith, and to resist dictation in this matter, whether from priests or politicians, who, in so far as they attempt to debauch the free national conscience, are usurpers, and ought to be cast down.
(4.) The Scottish people did, by many very manifest and indubitable acts, declare and profess their faith in Presbytery as the most scriptural form of church government, according to the best of their insight; and this their declaration was formally confirmed by the Act of Parliament 1560.
(5.) Notwithstanding this public and constitutional declaration, King James VI., Kings Charles I. and II., and James II., did, in a most false and treacherous way, form a conspiracy to rob the Scottish people of this their freely chosen faith; and did, during a period of more than one hundred years, proceed to the execution of this conspiracy in a series of public acts, characterised by falsehood, fraud, force, and cruelty of the most atrocious description.
(6.) That for these acts resistance to the government of these kings, so far from being criminal, was to be regarded as the highest heroism; and to the men who practised this heroism, in days of gross selfishness and cowardice, the Scottish people owe their independence, and all that is manly and worthy of admiration in their character.
(7.) The Scottish Cavaliers, whatever might have been the personal virtues of some of them, or the brilliant qualities of others, were, as a body, engaged in the cause of falsehood, injustice, tyranny, and oppression, and therefore are justly regarded by all true Scotsmen with hatred, and by all philosophical thinkers with pity or contempt.
(8.) The principles for which the Covenanters fought and bled, are the very principles which were established by the Revolution of 1688, and which lie at the bottom of the whole political constitution and social philosophy of Britain at the present hour.
(9.) Any offensive peculiarities of doctrine or manners exhibited by individual Presbyterians, are no more to be made a ground of reproach against the whole body, than the licentiousness and corruption of the Court of Charles II. are to be set down to the accountof the whole body of the Cavaliers who supported him.
(10.) Those who are fond to object to the Covenanters that they were intolerant, ought to bear in mind that toleration in matters of state-religion is an innovation only of yesterday, unknown alike to Plato, the greatest philosopher of ancient times, and to Calvin, one of the greatest theologians of modern times. Besides, toleration, which is a very pretty phrase in times of peace, can have no meaning in times of war. Soldiers do not tolerate one another; they cut one another's throats. So, in times of religious warfare, there can be no toleration, so long as the struggle lasts. We are learning to tolerate Popery only now; and even now not altogether. If the Covenanters were intolerant in those days of a life and death struggle, so were the Episcopalians; only the Covenanters, so long as they remained on Scottish ground, were in the right, and the Episcopalians in the wrong. If a man uses violence in word or deed, it is by no means a matter of indifference of what cause he is the champion, and whether he stands in a defensive or an aggressive position. To be over-zealous in a good cause may often be pardonable; while even a little zeal in the service of falsehood, fraud, and force, is a great sin.
Of the land of the mountain, the rock, and the glen,
And the heroes who bled for the old Scottish cause,
When the Southron insulted our kirk and our laws;
Though frosty wits may sneer at home, and Cockneys pour abuse!
With the fire of Robert Burns, and the faith of stout John Knox,
We'll be more than a match for the smooth English folks!
Every rock tells a tale of the brave Scottish men,
When he swindled our freedom, and tramped on our laws.
But he lost it, believe me, by judgment divine,
When he came, a crowned traitor, to pick wicked flaws
In the Covenant, the bond of our old Scottish cause.
Who preached on the mountains, and prayed in the glen,
When the weak shuffling Charles, who swore false to the cause,
Sent his troopers to tramp on the old Scottish laws!
There are fools who will frown, when this bumper I quaff;
Stood firm, when the Stuart down trampled our laws.
They pined in black dungeons, were drowned in the sea;
But their blood was the cement that soldered our laws,
When they bled for their faith in the old Scottish cause.
Cargill and Cameron, Guthrie, M'Kail;
Their fame shall be sounded with deathless applause,
Who fought, bled, and died for our kirk and our laws!
THE MERRY BALLAD OF STOCK GEILL.
In this ballad I have followed very closely the account given by our genial Reformer in his History, vol. I. p. 260, Laing. The word marmoset, signifying a sort of monkey, is applied by Knox to the idol. I put it into the mouth of the mob.
I'll tell you of a merry gest, that gave the Pope a shog;
A gest that chanced in Embro' town, and in the
High Street old,
Where Willock taught, and stout John Knox, that faithful preacher bold.
Sing hey Stock Geill! and ho Stock Geill! the tale I tell is true;
We dashed his bones against the stones, and his stump in flinders flew!
All through the town, with pomp to bear the newly-painted log;
North Loch drowned,
And they have beaten about about, till a new one they have found.
Sing hey Stock Geill! and ho Stock Geill! the old god and the new!
We dashed his bones against the stones, and his stump in flinders flew!
With banners, flags, and crosses they are walking up and down;
The Regent queen, the wily Guise, put on her proudest smile,
And busked her in her brawest gown, to march with the young Stock Geill.
Sing hey Stock Geill! and ho Stock Geill! the old god and the new!
We'll dash his bones against the stones, and shame the shaveling crew!
Then on their heads they lift him, and with sounding pomp they come,
With Latin rant, and snivelling chant, and pipe, and fife, and drum.
Sing hey Stock Geill! and ho Stock Geill! this day the priests shall rue!
Against the stones we'll dash the bones o' the idol painted new!
West about, and East about, and round about they go;
Along the Luckenbooths they trail, and down to big Jack's Close,
And the bone of his arm, to work a charm, they kiss at the Abbey Cross!
Sing hey Stock Geill! and ho Stock Geill! this kissing ye shall rue!
We'll dash your bones against the stones, though you're painted fresh and new!
There brews a storm betwixt the Bows—the crowd looks black and grim!
They rush!—they spring!—hold fast your god! they'll tear him limb from limb!
Sing hey Stock Geill! and ho Stock Geill! this dainty godling new!
They mass their bands, and with strong hands they'll do! they'll do! they'll do!
They dashed his head against the stones—his stump in flinders flew!
Thou young Stock Geill, and wilt thou die, poor imp, and give no token?
Thy father had a stouter skull, was not so lightly broken!
Sing hey Stock Geill! and ho Stock Geill! the silly godling new!
We dashed his bones against the stones, and his stump in flinders flew!
They puffed and blew, they panted hot, they gaped with foolish wonder;
Down go their crosses! up their skirts! their caps fly in the air;
Their surplice flaps; they run as fast as them their legs can bear!
Like crows at pop of gun, the grey and black stoled friars flew,
Mid curse and sneer, and gibe and jeer, and merry wild halloo!
That now no stout Scotch knee might bend before a painted log!
The Devil's lumber-room we swept—for thus John Knox did say:
Pull down the rookery, and the rooks will quickly fly away!
We left no trappings of Stock Geill; that day we ne'er shall rue,
When we dashed his bones against the stones, and his stump in flinders flew!
THE SONG OF MRS JENNY GEDDES.
See Chambers' Annals of Scotland, vol. ii. p. 103, year and date as in the text. The learned author says, on the authority of Wodrow, that the name of this mettlesome dame was not Geddes, but Mean. But, however this be, Fame has baptized her into Geddes, and with that appellation she must live through the ages, and will be famous as long as Scotland and Scotsmen are remembered.
And some the wise Aspasia, beloved by Pericles;
But o'er all the world's brave women, there's one that bears the rule,
The valiant Jenny Geddes, that flung the three legged stool,
With a row-dow—at them now!—Jenny fling the stool!
On Sabbath morn from high St Giles' the solemn peal was given:
He sent a book, but never dreamt of danger from a stool.
With a row-dow—yes, I trow!—there's danger in a stool!
The Provost and the Bailies in gold and crimson state,
Fair silken-vested ladies, grave Doctors of the school,
Were there to please the King, and learn the virtue of a stool.
With a row-dow—yes,I trow!—there's virtue in a stool!
Right smooth and sleek, but lordly pride was lurking in their e'e;
Their full lawn sleeves were blown and big, like seals in briny pool;
They bore a book, but little thought they soon should feel a stool.
With a row-dow—yes, I trow!—they'll feel a three legged stool!
He cast his eyes to heaven, and read the curious-printed book:
In Jenny's heart the blood upwelled with bitter anguish full;
Sudden she started to her legs, and stoutly grasped the stool!
With a row-dow—at them now! firmly grasp the stool!
So Jenny on the Dean springs, with gush of holy gall;
Wilt thou say the mass at my lug, thou Popish-puling fool?
No! no! she said, and at his head she flung the three legged stool.
With a row-dow—at them now!—Jenny fling the stool!
Stool after stool, like rattling hail, came tirling through the air,
With, Well done, Jenny! bravo, Jenny! that's the proper tool!
With a row-dow—at them now!—there's nothing like a stool!
The ladies and the Bailies their seats did deftly clear,
The Bishop and the Dean went, in sorrow and in dool,
And all the Popish flummery fled, when Jenny showed the stool!
With a row-dow—at them now!—Jenny show the stool!
Black Prelacy and Popery she drave from Scottish land;
King Charles he was a shuffling knave, priest Laud a meddling fool,
But Jenny was a woman wise, who beat them with a stool!
With a row-dow—yes, I trow!—she conquered by the stool!
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