of tweedsmuir.
An ancient edifice of years gone by,
Telling of souls now "passed into the sky,"
And weaving thoughts of man's eternity.
The quiet old churchyard lies so sweetly there,
It seems a place of slumber from life's care;
Yet years ago, as I am told in story,
Dark deeds were done by hands all red and gory,
And martyrs suffered in religion's cause,
Who lived for God, and not conventional laws:
Man's meaner tribute to the church and state
Found but resistance, and the martyr's fate
But stamped the seal of glory on the brow
That sings a song of triumph then as now.
The martyr's grave is there, though time hath chased
Wellnigh the lettered history, and effaced
What once in love and reverence was placed.
There is a beauty in that mountain land,
Where shepherds tend their flock with careful hand,
And all is peaceful in the passing day,
While strife and war have fled in dire dismay,
Scarce leaving aught to tell of their decay.
There is a beauty in the cottage life,
Telling of love beyond the world's strife;
If no ambition haunts the peasant heart,
Telling of souls now "passed into the sky,"
And weaving thoughts of man's eternity.
The quiet old churchyard lies so sweetly there,
It seems a place of slumber from life's care;
Yet years ago, as I am told in story,
Dark deeds were done by hands all red and gory,
And martyrs suffered in religion's cause,
Who lived for God, and not conventional laws:
Man's meaner tribute to the church and state
Found but resistance, and the martyr's fate
But stamped the seal of glory on the brow
That sings a song of triumph then as now.
The martyr's grave is there, though time hath chased
Wellnigh the lettered history, and effaced
What once in love and reverence was placed.
There is a beauty in that mountain land,
Where shepherds tend their flock with careful hand,
And all is peaceful in the passing day,
While strife and war have fled in dire dismay,
Scarce leaving aught to tell of their decay.
There is a beauty in the cottage life,
Telling of love beyond the world's strife;
If no ambition haunts the peasant heart,
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