| |
| UP the streets of Aberdeen, | |
| By the kirk and college green, | |
| Rode the Laird of Ury; | |
| Close behind him, close beside, | |
| Foul of mouth and evil-eyed, | 5 |
| Pressed the mob in fury. | |
| |
| Flouted him the drunken churl, | |
| Jeered at him the serving-girl, | |
| Prompt to please her master; | |
| And the begging carlin, late | 10 |
| Fed and clothed at Ury’s gate, | |
| Cursed him as he passed her. | |
| |
| Yet, with calm and stately mien, | |
| Up the streets of Aberdeen | |
| Came he slowly riding; | 15 |
| And, to all he saw and heard, | |
| Answering not with bitter word, | |
| Turning not for chiding. | |
| |
| Came a troop with broadswords swinging, | |
| Bits and bridles sharply ringing, | 20 |
| Loose and free and froward; | |
| Quoth the foremost, ‘Ride him down! | |
| Push him! prick him! through the town | |
| Drive the Quaker coward!’ | |
| |
| But from out the thickening crowd | 25 |
| Cried a sudden voice and loud: | |
| ‘Barclay! Ho! a Barclay!’ | |
| And the old man at his side | |
| Saw a comrade, battle tried, | |
| Scarred and sunburned darkly, | 30 |
| |
| Who with ready weapon bare, | |
| Fronting to the troopers there, | |
| Cried aloud: ‘God save us, | |
| Call ye coward him who stood | |
| Ankle deep in Lützen’s blood, | 35 |
| With the brave Gustavus?’ | |
| |
| ‘Nay, I do not need thy sword, | |
| Comrade mine,’ said Ury’s lord. | |
| ‘Put it up, I pray thee: | |
| Passive to His holy will, | 40 |
| Trust I in my Master still, | |
| Even though He slay me. | |
| |
| ‘Pledges of thy love and faith, | |
| Proved on many a field of death, | |
| Not by me are needed.’ | 45 |
| Marvelled much that henchman bold, | |
| That his laird, so stout of old, | |
| Now so meekly pleaded. | |
| |
| ‘Woe ’s the day!’ he sadly said, | |
| With a slowly shaking head, | 50 |
| And a look of pity; | |
| ‘Ury’s honest lord reviled, | |
| Mock of knave and sport of child, | |
| In his own good city! | |
| |
| ‘Speak the word, and, master mine, | 55 |
| As we charged on Tilly’s line, | |
| And his Walloon lancers, | |
| Smiting through their midst we’ll teach | |
| Civil look and decent speech | |
| To these boyish prancers!’ | 60 |
| |
| ‘Marvel not, mine ancient friend, | |
| Like beginning, like the end,’ | |
| Quoth the Laird of Ury; | |
| ‘Is the sinful servant more | |
| Than his gracious Lord who bore | 65 |
| Bonds and stripes in Jewry? | |
| |
| ‘Give me joy that in his name | |
| I can bear, with patient frame, | |
| All these vain ones offer; | |
| While for them He suffereth long, | 70 |
| Shall I answer wrong with wrong, | |
| Scoffing with the scoffer? | |
| |
| ‘Happier I, with loss of all, | |
| Hunted, outlawed, held in thrall, | |
| With few friends to greet me, | 75 |
| Than when reeve and squire were seen, | |
| Riding out from Aberdeen, | |
| With bared heads to meet me. | |
| |
| ‘When each goodwife, o’er and o’er, | |
| Blessed me as I passed her door; | 80 |
| And the snooded daughter, | |
| Through her casement glancing down, | |
| Smiled on him who bore renown | |
| From red fields of slaughter. | |
| |
| ‘Hard to feel the stranger’s scoff, | 85 |
| Hard the old friend’s falling off, | |
| Hard to learn forgiving; | |
| But the Lord His own rewards, | |
| And His love with theirs accords, | |
| Warm and fresh and living. | 90 |
| |
| ‘Through this dark and stormy night | |
| Faith beholds a feeble light | |
| Up the blackness streaking; | |
| Knowing God’s own time is best, | |
| In a patient hope I rest | 95 |
| For the full day-breaking!’ | |
| |
| So the Laird of Ury said, | |
| Turning slow his horse’s head | |
| Towards the Tolbooth prison, | |
| Where, through iron gates, he heard | 100 |
| Poor disciples of the Word | |
| Preach of Christ arisen! | |
| |
| Not in vain, Confessor old, | |
| Unto us the tale is told | |
| Of thy day of trial; | 105 |
| Every age on him who strays | |
| From its broad and beaten ways | |
| Pours its seven-fold vial. | |
| |
| Happy he whose inward ear | |
| Angel comfortings can hear, | 110 |
| O’er the rabble’s laughter; | |
| And while Hatred’s fagots burn, | |
| Glimpses through the smoke discern | |
| Of the good hereafter. | |
| |
| Knowing this, that never yet | 115 |
| Share of Truth was vainly set | |
| In the world’s wide fallow; | |
| After hands shall sow the seed, | |
| After hands from hill and mead | |
| Reap the harvests yellow. | 120 |
| |
| Thus, with somewhat of the Seer, | |
| Must the moral pioneer | |
| From the Future borrow; | |
| Clothe the waste with dreams of grain, | |
| And, on midnight’s sky of rain, | 125 |
| Paint the golden morrow! | |
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