Born of a lowly line, Noteless as once was thine, One of that name I would were kin to me, Who, in the Scottish Guard Won this for his reward, To fight for France, and memory of thee:  Not upon us, dark Lily without blame, Not on the North may fall the shadow of that shame.

On France and England both The shame of broken troth, Of coward hate and treason black must be; If England slew thee, France Sent not one word, one lance, One coin to rescue or to ransom thee. And still thy Church unto the Maid denies The halo and the palms, the Beatific prize.

p. 3But yet thy people calls Within the rescued walls Of Orleans; and makes its prayer to thee; What though the Church have chidden These orisons forbidden, Yet art thou with this earth’s immortal Three, With him in Athens that of hemlock died, And with thy Master dear whom the world crucified.

p. 3

p. 4HOW THEY HELD THE BASS FOR KING JAMES—1691–1693

p. 4

Time of Narrating—1743

Ye hae heard Whigs crack o’ the Saints in the Bass, my faith, a gruesome tale; How the Remnant paid at a tippeny rate, for a quart o’ ha’penny ale! But I’ll tell ye anither tale o’ the Bass, that’ll hearten ye up to hear, Sae I pledge ye to Middleton first in a glass, and a health to the Young Chevalier!

Ye

The Bass stands frae North Berwick Law a league or less to sea, About its feet the breakers beat, abune the sea-maws flee, There’s castle stark and dungeon dark, wherein the godly lay, p. 5That made their rant for the Covenant through mony a weary day. For twal’ years lang the caverns rang wi’ preaching, prayer, and psalm, Ye’d think the winds were soughing wild, when a’ the winds were calm, There wad they preach, each Saint to each, and glower as the soldiers pass, And Peden wared his malison on a bonny leaguer lass, As she stood and daffed, while the warders laughed, and wha sae blithe as she, But a wind o’ ill worked his warlock will, and flang her out to sea. Then wha sae bright as the Saints that night, and an angel came, say they, And sang in the cell where the Righteous dwell, but he took na a Saint away. There yet might they be, for nane could flee, and nane daur’d break the jail, And still the sobbing o’ the sea might mix wi’ their warlock wail, p. 6But then came in black 

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