 | Songs of Religion and Life |  |
120
Lines written at Magus Muir.
Lament who will the surplice rent,
And mitre trampled low,
I cannot think the blow mis-spent,
That felled our priestly foe.
And mitre trampled low,
I cannot think the blow mis-spent,
That felled our priestly foe.
Who sent him here?—a perjured king.
His work?—with churchman's art
To bind young Freedom's mounting wing,
And crush a people's heart.
His work?—with churchman's art
To bind young Freedom's mounting wing,
And crush a people's heart.
Ill-omened priest! for courtly place
Well made, and cold propriety;
But here thou found'st a fervid race,
Whose sternly-glowing piety
Well made, and cold propriety;
But here thou found'st a fervid race,
Whose sternly-glowing piety
121
Scorned paper laws. Their free-bred soul
Went not with priests to school,
To trim the tippet and the stole,
And pray by printed rule;
Went not with priests to school,
To trim the tippet and the stole,
And pray by printed rule;
But they would cast the eager word,
From their heart's fiery core,
Smoking and red, as God had stirred
The Hebrew men of yore.
From their heart's fiery core,
Smoking and red, as God had stirred
The Hebrew men of yore.
And thou didst come, a cassocked slave,
With windy proclamation,
Parchment, and ink, and wax, to brave
The spirit of a nation;
With windy proclamation,
Parchment, and ink, and wax, to brave
The spirit of a nation;
And with rash plume didst brush the flame,
And wert consumed, poor fly!—
So perish all, who join the name
Of Christ, with tyranny!
And wert consumed, poor fly!—
So perish all, who join the name
Of Christ, with tyranny!
122
Prate not of law and lawyer's art!
When kingly sin is rife,
The law is in a people's heart,
That whets the needful knife.
When kingly sin is rife,
The law is in a people's heart,
That whets the needful knife.
O Scotland! O my country! thou
Through blood hast waded well;
From glorious Bannockburn till now,
The tyrant hears his knell
Through blood hast waded well;
From glorious Bannockburn till now,
The tyrant hears his knell
Rung from thy iron heart. And we,
In lone rock-girdled glen,
Or purple heath, erect and free,
From harsh knife-bearing men
In lone rock-girdled glen,
Or purple heath, erect and free,
From harsh knife-bearing men
Inherit peace. Lament who will
The mitre trampled low;
Not all are murderers who kill,
The cause commends the blow.
The mitre trampled low;
Not all are murderers who kill,
The cause commends the blow.
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