Barclay Of Ury

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,     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     Fed and clothed at Urys gate,     Cursed him as he passed her.     Yet, with calm and stately mien,     Up the streets of Aberdeen     Came he slowly riding;     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;     Who with ready weapon bare,     Fronting to the troopers there,     Cried aloud: God save us,     Call ye coward him who stood     Ankle deep in Lutzens blood,     With the brave Gustavus?     Nay, I do not need thy sword,     Comrade mine, said Urys 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.     Woes the day! he sadly said,     With a slowly shaking head,     And a look of pity;     Urys 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 Tillys line,     And his Walloon lancers,     Smiting through their midst well 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 goodwife, oer and oer,     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 strangers scoff,     Hard the old friends falling off,     Hard to learn forgiving;     But the Lord His own rewards,     And His love with theirs accords,     Warm and fresh and living.     Through this dark and stormy night     Faith beholds a feeble light     Up the blackness streaking;     Knowing Gods own time is best,     In a patient hope I rest     For the full day-breaking!     So the Laird of Ury said,     Turning slow his horses head     Towards the Tolbooth prison,     Where, through iron gates, he heard     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;     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,     Oer the rabbles laughter;     And while Hatreds fagots burn,     Glimpses through the smoke discern     Of the good hereafter.     Knowing this, that never yet     Share of Truth was vainly set     In the worlds wide fallow;     After hands shall sow the seed,     After hands from hill and mead     Reap the harvests yellow.     Thus, with somewhat of the Seer,     Must the moral pioneer     From the Future borrow;     Clothe the waste with dreams of grain,     And, on midnights sky of rain,     Paint the golden morrow!