THE MARTYRDOM OF
JOHN BROWN

by
Mrs A Stuart Menteath (1845)
“Lays of the Kirk and Covenant” Glasgow, W S Sime,(1892)

There,
worthy of his masters, came

The
despots’ champion, bloody Graham,

To stain
for aye a warrior’s sword,

And lead
a fierce, though fawning horde—

The
human bloodhounds of the earth—

To hunt
the peasant from his hearth !

Poetic
Mirror.

IT is the
cold grey morning,

Slow
creeping o’er the hill;

But no wild bird giveth warning—

All
insect mirth is still

In vain
the sun would scatter

The chill, dank mists away;

And the rain’s unceasing patter

Weeps in
the cheerless day !

Forth o’er the dreary moorland

The
preacher strains his eye ;

Once more
the staff is in his hand

Once more
he turns to fly.

As the partridge on the mountains,

His life
is hunted still;

And his
bosom’s troubled fountains

Reflect
the coming ill.

He turned
him to the mother,

Low
bending o’er her child—

A groan
he sought to smother,

His voice
was hoarse and wild.

“Poor
wife! poor wife !” he muttered,

“A weary,
dreary dawn

Bethink
the words I uttered

Upon thy
marriage morn.

“I bade
thee prize him highly,

For a man
of God was he—

Yet keep
the garment nigh thee,

His
winding sheet to be!

“Poor
wife ! poor wife !” he mutters,

“A
dreary, weary dawn ! “

Ere
answering word she utters,

The
wanderer is gone!

And she
is left all lonely,

With the
sickness at her heart,

That for
him she loveth only

Those
boding words impart.

Upon her
babe she gazes,

But
comfort is not there—

Her eyes
to heaven she raises,

And
meekly bows in prayer.

And, as
her prayer ascended,

Ifer
faded eye grew bright—

As though
a beam descended

Awl
touched her soul with light

And
meekly now she goeth

About her
household care

Each
homely task she doeth

Being
sanctified by prayer !

—The
evening meal awaits hiin,

The wife
bath clone her part ;

What
now—what now belates him

Oh ! the
boding at her heart !

Forth
o’er the dreary moorland

Site
strains her anxious eye

A tramp
of horse !—a ruthless band,

Athwart
the mist drew nigh !

With
oaths and dreadful laughter,

Athwart
the mist they come

With
shouts all breathing slaughter,

They drag
her husband home !

Come
forth ! come forth ! and ‘greet him,

Thou
singer of sweet psalms
“

She goeth
forth to meet him,

Her
infant in her arms !

“Now get
thee to thy praying”

(The
bloody Claver’se spake);

“My haste
brooks no delaying

I’ve
other dogs to take !”

—Upon his
native heather

The
martyr knelt him down

“‘Tis
sudden, 0 my Father!

But Thou
wilt keep thine own

“And
thou, my wife! m^y leal one

Oh!
grudge not o’er the dead

I told
thee that this hour would come,

When thou
and I were wed !”

His last
farewell is spoken,

He prays
his latest prayer;

In
silence all unbroken,

His
murderers gird him there!

In
silence all unbroken

Save by
that pleading tone,

Pleading
for one last token

From the
eternal Throne

Strong is
the good man’s weakness

Mighty
the power of prayer—

Almost
the victim’s meekness

Subdues
the fierce ones there

Awe-struck and conscience-haunted,

Those
rude, stern, soldiers stand

A terror
all unwonted

Palsies
the ruffian band !

Visions
of coming judgment

Flash on
the startled brain

A moment
paused the (lire intent,

 A
moment—but in vain !

What,
craven—ho !” the demon shout

Of
laughter filled the air ;

And
Claver’so drew his pistol out—

And
hushed the martyr’s prayer !

A flash !
a sound ! a woman’s scream !—

Earth!
thou hast ioorne these thing,

And
still, as in a maniac’s dream,

‘That
demon-laughter rings !

“Ho, ho,
gudewife ! our work speeds fast

What
think’st thou of him now !”

`Twas
strange—the sudden spasm that pass’d

O’er that
new widow’s brow !

‘Twas
strange—the white cheeks flushing,

The
kindling of the eye

” Aye
thought I only gude of him,

Now
muckle mair than aye !”

Grim
smiled the bloody Claver’se,­”

Now, by
my troth,” he cried,

“Methinks
the deed were none the worse,

To lay
thee by his side !”

Stern in
her spirit’s sadness,

She
answered—” Even so;

“Even to
such height of madness

Thy cruel
rage may go!

“Do with
me as ye will—and can “

(Here
swelled her bosom’s flood)—

“Yet must
thou answer God and man

For this
day’s work of blood !”

“To man,
my answer will I bear;

For God
…” he glanced on high—

The very
troopers shrank to hear

The oath
of blasphemy!

Coldly he
motioned on his train,

And
turned his charger’s head,

A moment
checked his bridle rein,

Then left
her—with the dead!

Left
her—the broken-hearted,
Beside her dead to die ;;‑

Oh,
surely life hath parted

In that
sore agony!

No ! for her woman’s spirit

Is strong
to bow and bear—

No ! for
she doth inherit

His faith
who sleepeth there !

No ! for
her infant’s wailing

Forbids
her to depart;

And God’s
own peace prevailing,

Binds up
the broken heart !

—Warned
by the tempest token,

A
wanderer seeks once more

The
shelter—oft bespoken,

Of that
lone cottage door.

Clouds
o’er the wan moon fleeting

Shadow
the starless night;

Vainly he
yearns for greeting

Of that
quench’d ingle-light

All
dark—all dark and lonely

Hlis
hurrying footsteps found,

And that
sad widow only,

Low
seated on the ground.

Beside
her dead she bideth‑

O prophet
! sadly sooth !‑

He knows
the grey plaid hideth

The
husband of her youth!

“Poor
wife! poor wife!
his

crown is
won,

But sore
bereaved art
thou!

Dear
Saviour! help the helpless one—

Thou

art her
husband now !”

18/07/2011