Poems of the Covenant

O blissful days!
When all men worship God as conscience wills.
Far other times our fathers’ grandsires knew,
A virtuous race to godliness devote.
What though the sceptic’s scorn hath dared to soil
The record of their fame ! What though the men
Of worldly minds have dared to stigmatize
The sister-cause, Religion and the Law,
With superstition’s name! yet, yet their deeds,
Their constancy in torture, and in death, —
These on tradition’s tongue still live; these shall
On History’s honest page be pictured bright
To latest times. Perhaps some bard, whose muse
Disdains the servile strain of fashion’s quire,
May celebrate their unambitious names.

With them each day was holy, every hour
They stood prepared to die, a people doomed
To death; — old men, and youths, and simple maids.
With them each day was holy ; but that morn
On which the angel said, ” See where the Lord
Was laid,” joyous arose; to die that day
Was bliss. Long ere the dawn, by devious ways,
O’er hills, thro’ woods o’er dreary wastes, they sought
The upland moors, where rivers, there but brooks,
Dispart to different seas. Fast by such brooks,
A little glen is sometimes scooped, a plat
With green sward gay, and flowers that strangers seem
Amid the heathery wild, that all around
Fatigues the eye: in solitudes like these,
Thy persecuted children, Scotia, foiled
A tyrant’s and a bigot’s bloody laws;
There, leaning on his spear, (one of the array,
Whose gleam, in former days, had scathed the rose
On England’s banner, and had powerless struck
The infatuate monarch and his wavering host),
The lyart veteran heard the word of God
By Cameron thundered, or by Renwick poured
In gentle stream : then rose the song, the loud
Acclaim of praise; the wheeling plover ceased
Her plaint; the solitary place was glad,
And on the distant cairns, the watcher’s ear
Caught doubtfully at times the breeze-borne note.

But years more gloomy follow’d; and no more
The assembled people dared, in face of day,
To worship God, or even at the dead
Of night, save when the wintry storm raved fierce,
And thunder-peals compell’d the men of blood
To couch within their dens; then dauntlessly
The scatter’d few would meet, in some deep dell
By rocks o’er-canopied, to hear the voice,
Their faithful pastor’s voice. He, by the gleam
Of sheeted lightning, oped the sacred book.
From: “Poets and poetry of the Covenant” compiled by: THE REV. DAVID MCALLISTER, D. D.. LL. D.

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By John MacFarlane

Hid in the depths o’ the muirlan mists,
Unwatched on the slope o’ the mountain green,
The Martyr’s Grave that we kent langsyne
Pleads wi’ the heart in the wilds unseen;
An’ the glen whaur, forfourchen an’ hunted sair,
He soucht for a den by the roebuck’s lair.

Alane on the hill-tap stern an’ grey,
Alane, in the fa’ o’ heavens ain dew,
He thocht o’ the Lord and HIs promise guid,
For the faith o’ the Covenant life was true;
An’ a sweet dream cam’ owre his wearied sicht,
Like a gleam straucht frae the starns’ o’ licht.

Chased frae his hame, an’ the barins he lo’ed,
Far frae the love o’ his kith an’ kin,
He still was leal to the grand auld League,
For he couldna bide in the tens o’ sin;
An’ the croun was his that the sainted wear,
For it glintit aft on his broo o’ care.

Abune was the treasure he lang and hained,
Abune wi’ the host o’ the pure an’ just,
Sae he didna flee frae the ‘oor o’ doom,
His father’s God was his only trust;
An’ his saul ta’en flicht to the realms sae blest,
Tho’ his shround was a shroud o’ mornin’ mist.

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Come, Lord, let’s walk on Sion Hill,
There to remain for ever still;
Where prophets, ‘Postles, and just folk,
With Martyrs on a row do walk,—
The Angels sweetly caroling:
This to my soul, this to my soul,
Content shall bring.
—Henry Youll 1608

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by Jeanie Morison

They shot him at his cottage door
An’ his wife was standing near,
But never a word of grief said she,
Nor dimmed her e’e a tear.

They tied his hands ahint his back,
An’ bound his bonny e’en,
But her face was white, an’ still an’ cauld,
As a dead face it had been.

The heath a’purple i’ the sun
Shone redder where he lay
When they had warked their wicked will,
An’ turned to ride away.

“An’ what think ye o’ your guidman noo,
Guidwife?” quoths Clavers rude:–
A flash cam’ i’ the tearless e’e–
To the white cheek the bluid.

She walked with steady step an’ prood,
To where her guidman lay,
She laid on her lap the shattered head
An’ wiped the bluid away.

“Ay I thought muckle o’ my guidman
An’ fair mair think I noo;
He’s died for the Lord that died for him–
God forgiv’e them that slew.

“Twere nocht but just” quoth Clavers cruel,
“Gin ye lay by his side?”
“Ay wark your will,” she answered him
Was never gladder bride.”

She sat there still as the gloamin’ fell,
An’ they turned and rode away,
Still when the heath grew dusk in night
On her knees the dead head lay

But when the first star glimmered oot
I’ the welkin’ quiet and blue
Ae long look took she o’ the e’en
She lo’ed, sae sichtless noo/

An’ syne she shut the e’elids whiteA
An’ kamed the clotted hair
An’ rowed him in his shepherds plaid
Wi’s life-bluid reddened sair.

She laid him on the purple heath
Gently as babe that slept
Nae word said she till a’ was dune–
Syne sat her doun and wept.

“

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Peden at the Grave of Cameron
by
Mrs A Stuart Menteath (1843).

A sound of conflict in the moss ! but that hath passed away,

And through a stormy noon and eve the dead unburied lay;

But when the sun a second time his fitful splendours gave,

One slant ray rested, like a hope, on Cameron’s new-made brave!

There had been watchers in the night! strange watchers gaunt and grim,

And wearily, with faint lean hands, they toiled a grave for him

But ere they laid the headless limbs unto their mangled rest,

As orphaned children sat they down, and wept upon his breast!

Oh ! dreary, dreary was the lot of Scotland’s true ones then—

A famine – stricken remnant, wearing scarce the guise of men ;

They burrowed, few and lonely, ‘mid the chill, dank mountain caves,

For those who once had sheltered them were in their martyr graves!

A sword had rested on the land—it did not pass away

—Long had they watched and waited, but there dawned no

 brighter day;

And many had gone back from them, who owned the truth of old,

Because of much iniquity, their love was waxen cold!

—There came a worn and weary man to Cameron’s place of rest;

He cast him down upon the sod—he smote upon his breast—

He wept, as only strong men weep, when weep they must, or die

And “Oh! to be wi’ thee, Ritchie!” was still his bitter cry!

“My brother ! O my brother ! thou hast passed before thy time,

And thy blood it cries for vengeance, from this purple land of

 crime;

Who now shall break the bread of life unto the faithful band

Who now upraise the standard that is shattered in thine hand !

“Alas! alas! for Scotland, the once beloved of heaven—

The crown is fallen from her head — her holy garment riven;

The ashes of her Covenant are scattered far and near,

And the voice speaks loud in judgment—which in love she

 would not hear!

“Alas! alas! for Scotland, for her mighty ones are gone;

Thou, brother—thou art taken—I am left almost alone;

 And my heart is faint within me, and my strength is dried

and lost,

A feeble and an aged man—alone against a host!

“Oh pleasant was it, Ritchie, when we two could counsel take,

And strengthen one another to be valiant for His sake ;-

Now seems it as the sap were dried, from the old blasted tree,

And the homeless—and the friendless—would fain lie down with thee !”

It was an hour of weakness—as the old man bowed his head,

And a bitter anguish rent him, as he communed with the dead;

It was an hour of conflict—and he groaned beneath the rod

But the burthen rolled from off him as he communed with his God!

“My Father! O my Father! shall I pray the Tishbite’s prayer,

And weary in the wilderness while Thou wouldst keep me there !

And shall I fear the coward fear, of standing all alone,

To testify for Zion’s King, and the glory of His throne!

“O Jesus! blessed Jesus! I am poor, and frail, and weak;

Let me not utter of mine own—for idle words I speak ;

But give me grace to wrestle now, and prompt my faltering tongue,

And breathe Thy name into my soul, and so I shall be strong!

—” I bless Thee for the quiet rest thy servant taketh now ;

I bless Thee for his blessedness, and for his crowned brow;

For every weary step he trod, in faithful following Thee,

And for the good fight foughten well— and closed right valiantly !

I bless Thee for the hidden ones, who yet uphold Thy name,

Who yet for Zion’s King and Crown shall dare the death of shame;

I bless Thee for the light that dawns even now upon my soul,

And brightens all the narrow way with glory from the goal !

“The hour and power of darkness—it is fleeting fast away,

Light shall arise on Scotland—a glorious gospel day ;­

Woe ! woe ! to the oppressers—they shall shrivel in his hand.

Thy King shall yet appear for thee, thou covenanted land!

“I see a time of respite—but the people will not bow;

I see a time of judgment—even a darker time than now:

Then, Lord, uphold Thy faithful ones—as now Thou dost uphold

And feed them, as Thou still hast fed Thy chosen flock of old!

“The glory! oh, the glory! it is bursting on my sight;

 Lord ! thy poor vessel is too frail for all this blinding light!

Now let Thy good word be fulfilled, and let Thy kingdom come

And, Lord, even in Thine own best time, take Thy poor servant home !”

Upon the wild and lone Airsmoss, down sank the twilight grey,

In storm and cloud the evening closed upon that cheerless day ;

But Peden went his way refreshed, for peace and joy were given

And Cameron’s grave had proved to him the very gate of heaven!

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By Mrs Harriet Stuart Menteath

[When on his deathbed the saintly pastor of Anwoth was cited to appear before  Parliament at Edinburgh. He told the herald, "Tell them that sent you that I have got summons already before a superior judge and judicatory, and I behove to answer to my first summons, and 'ere your day come, I will be where few kings and great folks come." He died 29th of March 1661 and was buried next day at St. Andrews]

Tread lightly through the darkened room, for a sick man lieth there,
And mind the dimness, only stirs the whispered breath of prayer;
As anxious hearts take watch by turns beside the lowly bed,
Where sleep the awful stillness wears that soon must wrap the dead!

Hour hath he unknown of fevered pain, but now his rest is calm,
As though upon the spirit worn distilled some healing balm.
It may be that his dreaming ear, wakes old accustomed words,
Or drinks once more the matin song of Anwoth’s “blessed birds!”

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Among the Pentland Hills there is a humble monument in memory of a wounded Ayrshire Covenanter, who, riding from the field of Rullion Green, mortally wounded, came to the house of Adam Sanderson, Blackhill. He asked if he could get shelter for the night, but was refused, for it was death, if it were known to give shelter to a Covenanter. So he requested that if they found him dead in the morning they would bury him on the hillside that would command a vew of his native county of Ayr. This has given us the fine poem of the late Roderick Lawson, of the West Kirk of Maybole.

Bury me in sight of the Ayrshire hills,
Which my feet have so often trod,
Where I learned to pray at my mother’s knee,
And worship my Father God.

Bury me in sight of the Ayrshire hills,
That look on the western sea,
Where al I  loved are living now,
And all that once loved me.

Bury me in sight of the Ayrshire hills,
Though there I may never roam,
But I like to think that my body will rest
In view of my native home

Bury me in sight of the Ayrshire hills,
Though far from them I die,
That haply some kindred eye may look,
On the sod ‘neath which I lie.

Cited from Rev James Barr “The Scottish Covenanters”
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A sick covenanter sought shelter in the house of a widow and died there. She and her sons buried the man secretly. However, the Laird of WesterHall heard of this and, for her kindness, he had her house destroyed. One of her sons, Andrew, a lad of about 17 was caught. WesterHall was eager to shoot him and ordered him to cover his eyes. “I can look you in the face,” he said, “I have done nothing of which I’d need be ashamed. But how will you look in that day when you shall be judged by what is written in the book?” He was shot where he knelt, his  Bible in his hand, and was buried on the spot

John Veitch, LL.D.

Andrew HIslop! Shepherd lad,
“Martyr” Graven on your tomb;
here you met the brutal Clavers,
here you bore his murderous doom!

Coming from the hill that morn,
doing humble duty well;
free in step, your honest look,
born of sunlight in the fell.

Here the Eskdale Mountains round you,
in your ear and murmuring stream;
here, ’tis May,  the bleating lambs –
life but seems a peaceful dream.

With no weapon but the crook
your soft, helpless, flock to guide;
here they shot you, Shepherd lad,
here you poured your warm heart tide!

“Ere I pass into the Presesence,
May I make a prayer to God?”
“Not one word,” said the brutal Clavers,
“We’ve no time, you wretched clod!”

“Draw your bonnet o’er your eyes,
that is boon enough for thee.”
“I pass to God with open face,
whom you will hardly dare to see!”

WesterHall and Claverhouse,
turn now since the deed is done!
What care ye for rebel corpse?
Let it bleach beneath the sun!

So they left you, martyr brave,
left you on the reddened sod;
but no raven-touched your face;
On it lay the  peace of God!

On the more the widow mother
bows to lot of dule and pine;
and WesterHall and Claverhouse
have merrily rode back to dine!

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A ship carrying covenanter prisoners, taken at the Battle of Bothwell Brig, to America as slaves for the plantations was dashed to pieces on the coast of Orkney.  Most of the 257 prisoners were drowned, many of them buried on the shore.  A   40 ft high monument marks the spot.

A.D. Hossack

Yonder it stands, a monument to those
Who counted not their lives dear unto them

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There was gladness in Zion, her standard was flying,
Free o’er her battlements glorious and gay;
All fair as the morning shone forth her adorning.
And fearful to foes was her godly array.

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By An Ayrshire Elder

 

Blow softly, ye breezes, by mountain and moor,
O’er the graves of the Covenant men,
By the muirland and flood that were red with their blood,
Can ye waft the old watchwords again?

For Scotland and Christ the breezes of old
O’er the wilds of the Westland bore,
From the Lugar and Nith to the Lothian Frith,
And the German Ocean’s shore.

And where’er they blew, a prayer was breathed
And a holy psalm was sung,
And hands were clasped and the banner grasped,
When the Covenant watchword rung.

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The Covenanter’s Lament
by John Stuart Blackie

O waly waly up the glen,
And waly waly o’er the moor!
The land is full of bloody men,

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The Covenanter’s Lament
by John Stuart Blackie

O waly waly up the glen,
And waly waly o’er the moor!
The land is full of bloody men,

Who hunt to death the friendless poor!
We brook the rule of robbers wild;
They tear the son from his father’s lands,
They tear the mother from her child,
They tear the Bible from our hands!

Last night, as I came o’er the moor,
And stood upon the grey hill-crown,
I saw the red flames rise wi’ power
Frae the lone house o’ Alik Brown.
The godless grim dragoons were there,
And Clavers spake, that swearing loon,
“So burn the nest, so smoke the lair
Of all that dare to think wi’ Brown!”

O blessed Lord, who rul’st in Heaven,
Who preached Thy gospel to the poor,
How long shall Thy best friends be driven
Like hunted hares from moor to moor?
Arise, O Lord, Thy saints deliver,
This land from ruthless despots free!
‘Neath wintry skies we sit and shiver,
But times of gladness come from Thee. [From Poems of fighting faith]

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