 | Songs of Religion and Life |  |
113
Rullion Green.
Here, on this height, where pastoral Pentland falls,
With easy slope, into the Lothian plain,
Where silence fills the azure-vaulted halls,
And solitude's serenest soul doth reign;
Where scarce the pewit's shrill far-plaining cry
Disturbs the quiet sleep o' the hill breeze,
And the bare brae seems clad, in mockery,
With one thin belt of lean and scurvy trees;
Here let me pause: Here mighty deeds were done
By Scotland's sires; and I am Scotland's son.
With easy slope, into the Lothian plain,
Where silence fills the azure-vaulted halls,
And solitude's serenest soul doth reign;
Where scarce the pewit's shrill far-plaining cry
Disturbs the quiet sleep o' the hill breeze,
And the bare brae seems clad, in mockery,
With one thin belt of lean and scurvy trees;
Here let me pause: Here mighty deeds were done
By Scotland's sires; and I am Scotland's son.
Say not that they were harsh, and stern, and sour,
Or say they were so, but not therefore base;
In iron times God sends, with mighty power,
Iron apostles to make smooth His ways;
And hearts of rock, close-clamped with many a bar,
He plants where angry billows lash the shore;
Thus love by fear, thus peace is pledged by war,
(Stern law!) and gospel paths are paved in gore;
We reap in ease what they did sow in toil,
And rate them harsh, and stern, and sour the while.
Or say they were so, but not therefore base;
114
Iron apostles to make smooth His ways;
And hearts of rock, close-clamped with many a bar,
He plants where angry billows lash the shore;
Thus love by fear, thus peace is pledged by war,
(Stern law!) and gospel paths are paved in gore;
We reap in ease what they did sow in toil,
And rate them harsh, and stern, and sour the while.
I blame them that they were not stern enough,
Too tamely bore, and waited overlong.
They should have checked, with sharp severe rebuff,
In the first threshold of his impious wrong,
The pedant-king, whose rash conceit did ween
With statute-work to stop the strong full heart
God-moved. He fell; and in his fall was seen
Man less than God, and nature more than art;
Old text, which many wars have preached, and more
Shall write in blood, ere folly's reign be o'er.
Too tamely bore, and waited overlong.
They should have checked, with sharp severe rebuff,
In the first threshold of his impious wrong,
The pedant-king, whose rash conceit did ween
With statute-work to stop the strong full heart
God-moved. He fell; and in his fall was seen
Man less than God, and nature more than art;
Old text, which many wars have preached, and more
Shall write in blood, ere folly's reign be o'er.
115
Here, on this slope, the Covenanting men
Stood, lifting holy hearts and holy hands;
And from the hill they looked, with eager ken,
To catch the nearing of their brother'd bands.
From Teviot's banks, from high Dunedin's brow,
Some aid was promised, and they hoped for more;
But ah! it was too bold a venture now,
And hands were weak, where tongues were strong before:
Dunedin closed her ports; and from the west
Hung grim Dalziel, avoidless as the pest.
Stood, lifting holy hearts and holy hands;
And from the hill they looked, with eager ken,
To catch the nearing of their brother'd bands.
From Teviot's banks, from high Dunedin's brow,
Some aid was promised, and they hoped for more;
But ah! it was too bold a venture now,
And hands were weak, where tongues were strong before:
Dunedin closed her ports; and from the west
Hung grim Dalziel, avoidless as the pest.
But fear they knew not. With an holy bond
In Clydesdale they had bound them to their God;
Nor do their hearts in danger's hour despond,
They bear Heaven's mandate, and they own its nod.
Beneath the cold and clear November noon,
Their hearts beat high upon the lonely hill;
Souls mild and kindly as the leafy June,
Stood cased in stern resolve, and dauntless will;
And, when soft pity melts the mood severe,
There God doth paint a rainbow in each tear.
In Clydesdale they had bound them to their God;
Nor do their hearts in danger's hour despond,
They bear Heaven's mandate, and they own its nod.
Beneath the cold and clear November noon,
Their hearts beat high upon the lonely hill;
116
Stood cased in stern resolve, and dauntless will;
And, when soft pity melts the mood severe,
There God doth paint a rainbow in each tear.
Hark, from the hill ascends the solemn chant!
And hark again the startling war-cry rings!
A mud-splashed rider comes with breathless pant—
‘ 'Tis he, the grim Dalziel, and death he brings
Or to himself, or you!’—Straightway were heard
The hungry hell-hounds through the stony dell
Hurrying. Their swords the godly warriors gird,
With godly benediction bless them well;
Then rush to the fray. The hostile horse they beat
Back to the glen, with swift severe retreat.
And hark again the startling war-cry rings!
A mud-splashed rider comes with breathless pant—
‘ 'Tis he, the grim Dalziel, and death he brings
Or to himself, or you!’—Straightway were heard
The hungry hell-hounds through the stony dell
Hurrying. Their swords the godly warriors gird,
With godly benediction bless them well;
Then rush to the fray. The hostile horse they beat
Back to the glen, with swift severe retreat.
And yet again the clattering onset came;
And yet again they drave it back in blood;
But grim Dalziel, now burning with fierce flame,
Gathered his serried hundreds. Like a flood,
He rolled, and swept the rankless tens away,
Whose valour now was bootless. They so few
Had boldly hoped to keep a host at bay;
Nor vainly—had their plighted friends been true.
Not lack of heart, but lack of ordered skill,
And lack of needful aidance wrought their ill.
And yet again they drave it back in blood;
But grim Dalziel, now burning with fierce flame,
Gathered his serried hundreds. Like a flood,
117
Whose valour now was bootless. They so few
Had boldly hoped to keep a host at bay;
Nor vainly—had their plighted friends been true.
Not lack of heart, but lack of ordered skill,
And lack of needful aidance wrought their ill.
Rude warriors, rest! God from that ill wrought good;
Your strong endurance wrought strong hate of wrong,
Let dark Dunnottar's dungeon-solitude,
And the strong Bass, attest your sufferings long;
No polished pen, no smooth and courtly verse,
Ye need to prove the virtue of your crime;
Pentland's green slopes, and the bleak moors o' the Merse,
Shall be your record to remotest time;
Ourselves, your sons, inheriting your stuff,
While we are worthy, shall be praise enough;
Your strong endurance wrought strong hate of wrong,
Let dark Dunnottar's dungeon-solitude,
And the strong Bass, attest your sufferings long;
No polished pen, no smooth and courtly verse,
Ye need to prove the virtue of your crime;
Pentland's green slopes, and the bleak moors o' the Merse,
Shall be your record to remotest time;
Ourselves, your sons, inheriting your stuff,
While we are worthy, shall be praise enough;
118
As ye were worthy of the royal man
Whose battle-axe the English epicure
Clove with a stroke, when the first fray began
At glorious Bannockburn! The purple moor,
While 'tis our home, the high hills granite-bound,
Shall brace our hearts, and make us valiant men;
From every crag a hero's tale shall sound,
A holy warning echo from each glen.
Shall slaves be dull where Wallace' blade was keen?
Shall sleeve and surplice flaunt o'er Rullion Green?
Whose battle-axe the English epicure
Clove with a stroke, when the first fray began
At glorious Bannockburn! The purple moor,
While 'tis our home, the high hills granite-bound,
Shall brace our hearts, and make us valiant men;
From every crag a hero's tale shall sound,
A holy warning echo from each glen.
Shall slaves be dull where Wallace' blade was keen?
Shall sleeve and surplice flaunt o'er Rullion Green?
Needs not this rhyme to tell their pious roll,
Who slept in caves, and on bleak hills did preach;
Guthrie, M`Kail, strong hearts that scorned control,
The soldier Wallace, many-wandering Veitch.
These sure did share His brotherhood sincere,
The Christ, who had not where to lay His head:
He died for all; for some who haply jeer
They in this clay did make their gory bed;
Men rude and wild, rough, shaggy, and uncouth,
But true and honest, and who died for truth.
Who slept in caves, and on bleak hills did preach;
Guthrie, M`Kail, strong hearts that scorned control,
The soldier Wallace, many-wandering Veitch.
These sure did share His brotherhood sincere,
The Christ, who had not where to lay His head:
He died for all; for some who haply jeer
They in this clay did make their gory bed;
119
But true and honest, and who died for truth.
Thou, Scotland's son, that wouldst be leal and true,
This storied stone, not dry and tearless scan:
Bleed for their wounds who freely bled for you,
And know how good, how great a thing is man.
O these did boast no brightly barren deed!
One death for freedom makes a million free;
And who achieves a self-dependent creed,
Has gained Mind's first and last great victory;
Gains more than hero's, more than bard's renown—
‘God's saints died here, and gained the martyr's crown.’
This storied stone, not dry and tearless scan:
Bleed for their wounds who freely bled for you,
And know how good, how great a thing is man.
O these did boast no brightly barren deed!
One death for freedom makes a million free;
And who achieves a self-dependent creed,
Has gained Mind's first and last great victory;
Gains more than hero's, more than bard's renown—
‘God's saints died here, and gained the martyr's crown.’
| Songs of Religion and Life | |