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And Scotland's pride and prowess

Was sunk and overthrown:
Before the Bible and the Sword

The Covenant went down.



TOOK PLACE IN DECEMBER 1660. "On Saturday (December 8) the Most Honourable House of Peers concurred with the Commons in the order for digging up of the carcasses of Oliver Cromwell, Henry Ireton, John Bradshaw, and Thomas Pride, and carrying them on hurdle to Tyburn, where they are to be first hang'd up in their coffins, and then buried under the gallows.” - Parliamentary Intelligencer, December 10th, 1660.

Ay, hang his carcass up at Tyburn, fools !
Why not hang up his sword and Bible too ?
It's not for you to wield the fighting-tools
Of him who kept the heart of England true
To sacred law, and strong for national need.
Go feast your wenching king, and stuff his greed
With the base gold of France; the time is near
When England's glory shall be thrown by you
Beneath the Dutchman's foot, and you shall hear
His cannon roar at Chatham, and the glare
Of burning ships shall light the evening air,
And England bow her head and drop a tear
For him whose bones your hate dishonours there,
The mighty-minded man who made the world to fear.

DE PROFUNDIS. How long have I lived here, sir ? Ten years next Michaelmas, Near ten years now, and I've not seen the sunshine on the grass ; We came from Chester then, sir, in hope of better cheer, And here we've worked in cold and heat, and clemmed from

year to year.

Through all the hours of daylight and far into the night,
Till the hand would drop, and the room would swim before our

failing sight, Here that poor lad and I have worked, translating boots and

shoes, And my dear wife, that's dead there, worked with us at old


Ah, sir, you don't know how we strove to keep our home

together, For our bit of food and clothing, and coal in winter weather ; Often enough we've fasted to spare the children food, And with pale lips and dothering chins we've worked as we

best could.

I once went to the parish and asked a little aid,
And the sour relieving officer gave a four-pound loaf of bread,
And cursed me well for coming, pushed me out into the rain,
And told me I should get the stones if I ever came again.

But I would sooner die, sir, in hunger, cold, and grief,
Than at an English workhouse door be fed with such relief;
I'll keep my bit of honour, and let England have my bones,
For her gift in death of a pauper's grave, and in my life the


You see this skinny arm, sir, yet it's an English limb;
My poor heart's blood is English, and these tired eyes, now

dim With over-work and hunger, used once to smile with joy When I roamed long since the Cheshire fields in spring-time

when a boy.

It's hard not to feel bitter when the rich go sweeping by, Without a kindly thought or wish for thousands such as I, When they cheapen down our labour, and drive us off the soil, And leave us nought in England but this life of want and toil.

I've stood beside their open gates, and gazed across the lawn, And seen the grand old house and grounds in the soft and

dewy dawn, And as the gates swung to again, and left me in the road, I felt how far away it was from my poor dark abode. I've heard that out of all the earth, in England here alone, The poor have not a foot of land which they can call their own; And that she owns whole countries in want of men, and bare, Which would hold England twenty times, why don't they take

us there? Our children would find room there, and grow up tall and

strong, And their hearts would not be soured with a sense of English

wrong. They would learn in home what heaven means, and not grow

up as now, With little thought save that of hunger, and their bitter lot

below. I don't know where the fault is, nor where to find the cure, But I know how keen the suffering is, and sorrow of the poor; Some say the rich are hard of heart, some say the fault 's our

own, And some that it's the will of God the poor should always

groan. I've wondered if God made the world, or if, as I've heard say, Things only come by hap and luck, and jog from day to day; If time will bring nought better, and poor men must live still, With the work that won't stop hunger, and the want which

does not kill.

It doesn't kill us quickly, but its gripe is slow and sure;
It's in the soul and bones and blood and stomach of the poor ;
It pinches us in childhood, and in our bit of youth
Our hearts grow often sore and sick with the gnawing of its


We don't know what the word life means, it's just a lingering

death, Till weakness over-masters pain, and in mercy stops our breath; Then unhonoured, but at rest, we possess the church-yard clay, And life, mayhap, begins for us in a land that 's far away.

By young Agenor's hearth the sages told
Of a far better, happier world than this,
Where dwelt the wise and upright ones of old,
In all the fulness of immortal bliss ;
The way no true and earnest search could miss,
Though filled with toil and barred with danger, still
By one whose heart both right and fearless is

It might be won. Such strength can hope instil,
That with the morn he rose and sought that wondrous hiil.

As eve drew on, at a steep mountain's base
He had arrived, and 'gan its height to scale;
While in the eastern sky the sweet moon's face
Rose o'er the purpling landscape, and the gale
From balmy woods, whose blossoms never fail,
Played ’mid his golden locks, refreshed his sense,
While his strong heart beat high with courage hale,

And stern resolve to brave the toil intense,
And gain the secret lore of that high eminence.

From head to foot in shining mail of proof,
Well was he armed, and on his shoulders strong
His helm and shield unneeded, hung aloof,
Both rich inwrought with skill, and labour long ;
Fearless he strode from power of any wrong,
While the dread lustre of a stainless sword
Gleamed in his right hand on the wondering throng

Of savage beasts, who fled in wild discord
From that ethereal blade, whose brightness they abhorred.

The night breeze swept aside the golden hair
Which curled upon his brow; his youthful face
Shone with the light of beauty, mingling there
With calm of heavenly thought; no evil trace
Or stain of lawless passion did deface
The soft yet mighty loveliness, and well
His brow was crowned with intellect and grace,

Of wisdom's presence told, and fancy's spell,
And all the virtues high which in pure minds do dwell.

The sombre pines their gloomy shadows shed
Now o'er his way, and silently they wept
Their ice-cold tears, and at their feet the dread
Ervenomed serpent in the darkness slept,
All stealthily the deadly adder crept
And hissed across the path. He stopped to laco
His helmet o'er his brow, and closely kept

The shield before his breast; well might he brace His harness for the toil of that unholy place.

He passed within the gloom; all chill he felt
The shadows close around ; the sickening damp
Clung to his lips, and gathering seemed to melt
In drops of venom cold ; a deadly cramp
Crept over all his frame; as when o'er swamp
Or poisonous fen the night-struck traveller tries
His way, bewildered by the goblin lamp,

And smitten by the vapours, sinks and dies;
So round our pilgrim now the pestilence doth rise.

No ray of light could pierce the gloomy pall,
Or show his pathway through the accursed maze,
While round and o'er him whispering fiends do call,
And evil eyes from foulest coverts gaze;
A golden lamp whose bright and steadfast blaze
Nor murk nor mist can dim, he doth atine,

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