THE CONVENTER'S FATE
. . . . . . . . . . .
And ne'er but once, my son, he says,
Was yon sad cavern trod, --
In persecution's iron days,
When the land was left by God.
From Bewlie bog, with slaughter red,
A wanderer hither drew,
And oft he stopt and turn'd his head,
As by fits the night wind blew;
For trampling round by Cheviot edge
Were heard the troopers keen,
And frequent from the Whitelaw ridge
The death-shot flash'd between.
The moonbeams through the misty shower
On yon dark cavern fell;
Through the cloudly night the snow gleam'd white,
Which sunbeam ne'er could quell.
'Yon cavern dark is rough and rude,
And cold its jaws of snow;
But more rough and rude are the men of blood,
That hunt my life below!
'Yon spell-bound den, as the aged tell,
Was hewn by demon's hands;
But I had lourd melle with the fiends of hell
Than with Clavers and his band.'
He heard the deep-mouth'd blood-hound bark,
He heard the horses neigh,
He plunged him in the cavern dark,
And downward sped his way.
Now faintly down the winding path
Came the cry of the faulting hound,
And the mutter'd oath of baulked wrath
Was lost in hollow sound.
He threw him on the flinted floor,
And held his reath for fear;
He rose and bitter cursed his foes,
As the sounds died on his ear:
'O bare thine arm, thou battling Lord,
For Scotland's wandering band;
Dash from the oppressor's grasp the sword,
And sweep him from the land!
'Forget not thou thy people's groans
From dark Dunnotter's tower,
Mix'd with the seafowl's shrilly moans,
And ocean's bursting roar!
'O, in fell Clavers' hour of pride,
Even in his mightiest day,
As bold he strides through conquest's tide,
O stretch him on the clay!
'His widow and his little ones,
O from their tower of trust
Remove its strong foundation stones,
And crush them in the dust!'
'Sweet prayers to me!' a voice replied;
'Thrice welcome, guest of mine!'
And glimmering on the cavern side
A light was seen to shine.
1799
And ne'er but once, my son, he says,
Was yon sad cavern trod, --
In persecution's iron days,
When the land was left by God.
From Bewlie bog, with slaughter red,
A wanderer hither drew,
And oft he stopt and turn'd his head,
As by fits the night wind blew;
For trampling round by Cheviot edge
Were heard the troopers keen,
And frequent from the Whitelaw ridge
The death-shot flash'd between.
The moonbeams through the misty shower
On yon dark cavern fell;
Through the cloudly night the snow gleam'd white,
Which sunbeam ne'er could quell.
'Yon cavern dark is rough and rude,
And cold its jaws of snow;
But more rough and rude are the men of blood,
That hunt my life below!
'Yon spell-bound den, as the aged tell,
Was hewn by demon's hands;
But I had lourd melle with the fiends of hell
Than with Clavers and his band.'
He heard the deep-mouth'd blood-hound bark,
He heard the horses neigh,
He plunged him in the cavern dark,
And downward sped his way.
Now faintly down the winding path
Came the cry of the faulting hound,
And the mutter'd oath of baulked wrath
Was lost in hollow sound.
He threw him on the flinted floor,
And held his reath for fear;
He rose and bitter cursed his foes,
As the sounds died on his ear:
'O bare thine arm, thou battling Lord,
For Scotland's wandering band;
Dash from the oppressor's grasp the sword,
And sweep him from the land!
'Forget not thou thy people's groans
From dark Dunnotter's tower,
Mix'd with the seafowl's shrilly moans,
And ocean's bursting roar!
'O, in fell Clavers' hour of pride,
Even in his mightiest day,
As bold he strides through conquest's tide,
O stretch him on the clay!
'His widow and his little ones,
O from their tower of trust
Remove its strong foundation stones,
And crush them in the dust!'
'Sweet prayers to me!' a voice replied;
'Thrice welcome, guest of mine!'
And glimmering on the cavern side
A light was seen to shine.
1799