Dear Reverend Sir,—I tak my pen
To tell yon great occasion when
We garred our licht shine afore men,
Yea, far and wide,
And smote the oppressor but and ben
For a’ his pride.
Yoursel’, ye mind, was far frae weel—
A cauld ye catch’t at Kippenshiel,
Forbye rheumatics in your heel—
And thus it came,
Fou though ye were o’ holy zeal,
Ye stopped at hame.
For me, my lambin’-time was bye,
The muirland hay was nane sae high,
The men were thrang, the grund was dry,
Sae when ye spak,
And bade me gang and testify,
I heldna back.
Wi’ dowie hert I left that morn,
Reflectin’ on the waefu’ scorn
The Kirk maun thole, her courts forlorn,
Her pillars broke,
While Amalek exalts his horn,
And fills his poke.
I pondered the mischances sair
The Lord had garred puir Scotland bear
Frae English folk baith late and ear’
Sin’ Flodden year
To the twae beasts at Carlisle fair
I bocht ower dear.
If true religion got a fa’
Frae her auld courts and guid Scots law,
What hope o’ succour far awa’
’Mang godless chiels,
Whae at the Word sae crousely craw
And fling their heels.
As weel expect the Gospel sap ’ill
Rise in uncovenantit thrapple
As saw a ploom to raise an apple,
Or think a soo
Fleein’ aloft on the hoose-tap ’ill
Sit like a doo.
I like an owl in desert was,
When to the coorts I buid to pass,
Amang the crood to hear the Cause.
Nae freend I saw,—
Juist some auld lads set oot in raws
And belchin’ law.
But ane sat cockit in atween,
A wee man but as gleg’s a preen:
A walth o’ sense was in his een
And foreheid massy.
“The Chancellor,” I was tellt, when keen
I speired whae was he.
Wi’ prayerfu’ mind I watched the stert
While Maister Johnston
[2] played his pairt,
And sune I fand my anxious hert
Gie a great loup.
“Yon Chancellor the ungodly’s cairt,”
I said, “will coup.”
O sir, that day I kent indeed
There’s men o’ worth across the Tweed,
Men whae are steadfast in the creed
As Moses sel’,
Men whae the Word o’ God can read
And cling to Hell.
I thocht they were a careless race,
Decked oot in cauld Erastian claes,
Whae traivelled a’ in slippery ways,
Whase thochts were vain:
But noo I ken they’ve gifts and grace
E’en like oor ain.
A Lowden chiel
[3]—black be his tryst!—
A wise-like man, but ill advised,
Led on the hosts o’ Antichrist,
And threepit bauld,
That man could never back be wysed
To Calvin’s fauld.
He made the yett o’ Heaven sae wide
The veriest stirk could get inside:
Puffed up he was wi’ warldly pride
And fou o’ German,
Quotin’ auld pagans for his guide
And sic-like vermin.
He feucht wi’ Prophets, jouked wi’ Psalms,
He got his legs clean ower the trams,
He garred th’ Apostles skip like rams
To dae his biddin’s:
Oor auld Confessions were but shams,
Their loss guid riddance.
“God foreordained some men to Hell—
Granted, but man can please himsel’
Up to a point—and if I dwell
Mair on free-will
Than on election, I do well,
A Christian still.
“For these are mysteries,” quo’ he,
“Whereon nae twae men can agree,
And sae it’s richt for you and me—
The thing’s sae kittle—
Ane to consider half a lee,—
Whilk—maitters little.
“It’s a’,” he said, “confüsion wild;
In siccan things the best’s a child;
Some walk an ell and some a mile;
But never fear,
Thae doots will a’ be reconciled
In higher sphere.
“Therefore a kirk, whase lamps are bright,
Bequeathed by auld divines o’ might,
Can fling them tapsalteerie quite,
And think nae shame;
For white is black and black is white,
It’s a’ the same.”
But what availed his carnal lear
Against a man o’ faith and prayer?
As through the thristles gangs the share
And dings them doun,
E’en sae the Chancellor cleft him fair
Frae heel to croun.
He pinned him wi’ the Bible words,
He clove at him wi’ Calvin’s swirds,
He garred him loup aboot the boards
Wi’ muckle mense,
And bund him wi’ the hempen cords
O’ plain guid sense.
“Threep as ye please, it’s clear to me,
Whether or no’ the twae agree,
Baith doctrines were appoint to be
The Kirk’s chief pillar.
If ane ye like to leave,” says he,
“Ye leave the siller.”
Oh, wi’ what unction he restored
The auld commandments o’ the Lord,
Confoonded Bashan’s nowt that roared,
And ’stablished Hell!
Knox was nae soonder in the Word
Nor Calvin’s sel’.
I’ll no’ deny yon Lowden chiel
Was gleg as ony slippery eel,
For twae-three men frae Kippenshiel
Begood to waver;
I half inclined to doot the Deil
A’ through his claver.
But when a man o’ faith and power
Uprose, he couldna bide an hour:
The weakest’s doots were tided ower
Anither towmont.
The Kirk stood firm as auld stane tower
Wi’ safe endowment.
······
I hae a bull, a noble breed,
A shorthorn wi’ a massy heid,
Wi’ quarters fine and coat o’ reid:
On ilka lea
Frae Thurso to the banks o’ Tweed
He bears the gree.
I ca’ed him Begg,
[4] the same’s his sire;
But noo for sign to a’ the shire
O’ yon great day when frae the mire
Our feet we bore,
His name shall be in field and byre
“The Chancellor.”