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,

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
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,

"Nay, I do not need thy sword, Comrade mine," said Ury's lord; "Put it up, I pray thee:

Passive to his holy will,

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.”

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,
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, 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!"

"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
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,
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, Than when reeve and squire were seen, Riding out from Aberdeen,

With bared heads to meet me.

"When each good wife, o'er and o'er, Blessed me as I passed her door; 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,
Hard the old friend's falling off,
Hard to learn forgiving:
But the Lord his own rewards,
And his love with theirs accords,

ર

Warm and fresh and living.

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

For the full day-breaking!"

So the Laird of Ury said,
Turning slow his horse's head

Towards the Tolbooth prison,

Where, through iron grates, he heard
Poor disciples of the Word

Preach of Christ arisen!

*

John G. Whittier.

Aberfeldy.

THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY.

CHORUS.- Bonny lassie, will ye go,
Will ye go, will ye go?

Bonny lassie, will ye go
To the birks of Aberfeldy?

Now simmer blinks on flowery braes,
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays;
Come, let us spend the lightsome days
In the birks of Aberfeldy.

The little birdies blithely sing,

While o'er their heads the hazels hing,

Or lightly fit on wanton wing

In the birks of Aberfeldy.

The braes ascend, like lofty wa's,

The foamy stream deep-roaring fa's,

O'erhung wi' fragrant spreading shaws,
The birks of Aberfeldy.

The hoary cliffs are crowned wi' flowers,
White o'er the linns the burnie pours,
And rising, weets wi' misty showers
The birks of Aberfeldy.

Let Fortune's gifts at random flee,
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me,
Supremely blest wi' love and thee,
In the birks of Aberfeldy.

Robert Burns.

Afton Water.

FLOW GENTLY, SWEET AFTON.

FLOW gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,

Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;

My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds through the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing thy screaming forbear,
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills,
Far marked with the courses of clear winding rills;