perfidious of his race,
Corrupt in life, and void of grace,
The menial of the Papacy;
And yet content by oath to free
Himself from Holy See's control,
And covenant to save his soul
By the Scotch Presbyterian mode,
As to the crown this paved the road.
But Cromwell brooked not this control;
He wished man free to save his soul
As conscience may to him dictate,
Without subservience to the State.
He saw also thro' the disguise
Of one well versed in fraud and lies,
And saw how England's liberties
Were threatened by this scheme of his.
So up to Dunbar Cromwell went;
To break this compact his intent,
Conserve the rights of Britons true
To worship God in desk and pew
As conscience may to them dictate,
Without control of king, or state,
Or Papal "bull," or legate's rod--
Only accountable to God.
On Sunday night he reached Dunbar.
From darkened sky gleamed not a star;
The way he travelled o'er was drear,
Made doubly so by Scotchmen's fear.
At his approach like sheep they fled,
Made frantic by an awful dread
Of red-hot irons, spear, and sword,
Of breasts thrust thro', and bodies gored,
Which they were told would be their lot
When Cromwell came. So from each cot
They bore away what pleased them best,
And to the flames consigned the rest.
But now Dunbar is reached; yet he
Finds himself in extremity;
Midst swamps and bogs unfit to tent,
By Lammermoor from hillside rent,
Leslie in front defiant stands
A noble army he commands
Of thousands two score seven, or more,
Ready on Cromwell shot to pour.
Behind the sea cut off retreat;
With such great odds can he compete?
The mountain sheep may safely tread
The Lammermoor, but men may dread
To cross this heath at any time;
Much more now, midst the rain and slime,
Will Cromwell with the smaller score
Dare to cross o'er to Dunbar shore?
Tho' shipped were half his guns and men
The foe falls ere he turn again.
With foresight keen, like one inspired,
He saw the end ere Leslie fired.
"THE LORD," said he, as rapt he stands,
"HATH GIVEN THEM INTO OUR HANDS!"
'Tis the ninth month and second day,
A wild, wet night, historians say.
Quit you like men, and bravely stand;
Death's wrestle now is close at hand;
Heed not the hoarse sea's doleful moan,
As on the cliffs its waves are thrown.
Think not of life nor kindred dear--
Who goes to war should nothing fear
But God, whose eye-lids never sleep--
His Israel He will safely keep.
Oh, pray! but keep your powder dry--
Your part do,