7
There hath Perseeution's hand
Tortured infaney and age;
When the Covenanted band
Braved a Popish bigot’s rage.
Then the warder proudly trod,
As he trolled a seoffing lay;
Or blasphemed the name of God,
As the eaptive bent to pray.
There the Hill-man oft hath sighed
To be free as oeean's swell,
While he sadly marked its tide
As it gaily rose and fell.
All have passed like morning dew—
Sadness sighs in hall and eave,
To the wailing of the mew,
And the murmur of the wave.
Thus thy billows, deathless deep,
As from elime to clime they range,
Still behold, along thy steep,
Human grandeur doomed to ehange.
But may Freedom’s anthem swell
From the castle to the cot;
Till Oppression’s ruthless cell
Share Dunnottar’s gloomy lot!
OUR COVENANTERS.
Scots, whose Fathers firmly stood,
When the Despot’s savage brood
Madly cast to fire and flood
