Rough Scan



Heils—over—head Sir Freir is cast,
=Whilk Papists’ wreth does raise,
But hameward soon they scamper fast,
=In terribill amaze
Their gates are then assail’d at last,
=Wi’ fludes o’ faemin’ faes,
A ghaist is seen, and omens ghast
=Betaken comin’ waes.

Their steeds, amid that battle’s bustle,
Camstarie turnin’ wi’ the justle,
=Back-spangit baith at anes,
Near whair the herald on his head
(Like to a baxter bearin’ bread)
The barrow bare wi’ a’ its lade
=O’ cedar-kist and banes.
And sae it fell, and sae it happit,
That, as Sir Freir was erthlins swappit,
Richt down upon the kist he drappit
As whan a tumbler at a fair,
Whair thousands round him goave and stare,
Up-wreils and whummles i’ the air,
=Heels-over-gowdie whurlin’;
Till, a’ his birr exhaust, the man,
Mair dizzy than he first began,
Down frae the sky as fast’s he can
=Comes whazelin’ and hurlin’;
Richt sae the freir i’ th’ ether whummlet,
In super-sault, than erthlins tummlet:
Swap on the barrow down he rummlet;
The herald wi’ the daud was hummlet;
=Nae wicht that wecht could bide;
Fertor in flinders flew around;
The kist, it boundit on the ground,
Scatterin’, throu’ a’ the barrei’s bound,
=The banes frae side to side:
Whilk, whan the vexit Papists saw,
That shame they couldna stand at a’,
To see their knicht in the dead-thraw,
=And their belovit banes,
That us’d to shine in shrinin’-box,
Now dash’t and casten at the cocks,
=Amang the sand and stanes:
They couldna thole ae moment langer;
They over-loup’d the lists in anger,
And dash’t them down wi’ clash and danger;
=And down intill the course,
Wi’ hirdie-girdie hurly-burly,
And countenances sour and surly,
=They drang wi’ pith and force;
As when at Don and Zuyder-see,
Whan wastern winds gowl dreidfullie,
A sea-dyke, under stress o’ sea,
=Is bursten by its blatter;
Great swallin’ surges frae the deep
Come swingin’ in wi’ frichtsome sweep,
To drown hail cities in their sleep,
And to the weathercocks, to steep
=The sleeples in salt-water:
E’en sae the flude o’ Papists brak
The pales, and pour’d, wi’ crash and crack,
On the rink-room their creishy pack
=Wi’ clamour and uproar,
Up frae the grund their knicht to tak
(That lay bumbazet on his back,)
And cleik the heukle-banies black
That sparpled lay about like wrack
=Or tangles on a shore:
They scarce had time, ‘mang sand and stanes,
To glaum and glammach for the banes,
Whan frae th’ opposin’ side at anes
=Down-lap douce Luther’s thrang,
Makin’ the rails to flee asunder,
And rollin’ in wi’ sound o’ thunder
T’ attack in monie a score and hunder
=That break-faith Papish gang:
As when i’ th’ Pentland firth twa tides,
Owr wham a diff’rent tempest rides,
(This ane the wast-wind lamps and lashes,
That ane the east-wind drives and dashes
=Baith in to Stroma’s strand,)
They meet and curl their heads in wreth;
Cauld Stroma’s isle is fill’d wi’ fraeth;
The skipper caucht sees nocht but death,
=And wrack on ilka hand;
But frae his wee house, Johnie Groat
Keeks out, and blesses his glad lot
=That he’s in bigget land:
E’en wi’ sic wreth commix and mingle
Upon the crowdit rink-room’s chingle,
Papists and faes in dreidfu’ pingle:
Sir Tullidaff, that lay down-knocket,
Was maistlins smother’t up, and chokit,
Wi’ heaps that owr him flew and flockit;
The weir-steeds round and round were blokit;
Nae man thocht now on banes or kist;
=Heukbanes and shrine were now nae miss’t;
=Their sauls were sae in ire:
Ae Lollard-man got ere he wist
A lounder frae a Papish fist,
=That garr’d his een glent fire;
Ae Papish wratch gat on his pechan
Sae devilish a dandiefechan,
=It dang clean in his stammach;
Ae wee short Canon, fat and fodgel,
Gat on his bare pow wi’ a Cudgel,
=It garr’d him yesk his drammach:
Was naething gain but knocks and nevels,
And clamehewits, baffs, and bevels;
The hail ring focht like vera devils;
Neifs flew, like shot impell’t by powther,
Mortallie fast frae ilka showther;
At shaven-Crowns some fechtars slappit;
On bany skulls hard knuckles rappit;
At cheeks and noses ithers swappit,
Sae that the dreidfu’ blude down drappit;
And some fell’d ane, some smash’t anither;
They baff’t, buff’t, cuff’t, the tane the tither;
Was never sic hillie—belew and flither
Within a’ Christendie thegither:
Heav’n hielde us a’ frae sic a drither!

Dan Momus, frae his cloudie chair,
Whair he was sittin’ i’ the air,
Observin’, butten cark or care,
=This rumpus and this rook,
Unseen, cam fleein’ frae his heicht,
And ‘mang the fechtars down did licht:
That mament he to human sicht
=Pat on ane human buik;
He borrow’t John Arbuckle’s face,
His belly, too, o’ richt guid case,
His sonsy over-lardit thies,
His coots, his elbucks, and his knees,
=His gown and ither gear;
The vera buttons, claith and steeks,
Were just the same as Johnie’s breeks,
=The hairs upon his chafts and cheeks
=Fient ane were less or mair;
Tak the hail widdle a’ thegither,
Nae things were liker ane anither,
Than this puir shadow, slim and bruckle,
To solid-backit John Arbuckle,
O’ double chin and belly muckle:
Amid the fecht he plumpit richt,
Yet not ae body saw him licht;
The carls, atween the wham he squeez’d,
Felt na, as down his frame he feez’d;
Nae sooner in but seen; behauld!
His head, as if wi’ cudgel maul’d,
Show’d on its tapmast crown a bump
A bonny weel-dissemblet lump,
As if just risen frae the thump:
A streap o’ blude that rill’d as red
As ony man’s blude ever shed
=Strinkel’t his ilka haffet;
The swallin’ seem’d as gin it had
That mament got a dainty dad,
And that the rung that gae the blad
=Was just up-liftit aff it:
Whairat th’ Eidolon wi’ the pain
Yelloch’t wi’ a’ his micht and main.
A thousand nowt in Falkland plain,
Gather’d for sale to southron-men,
=Upon a market-day,
E’en were they a’ at anes to rout,
Couldna hae bellow’t sic a bout,
=As that fause freir, perfay;
Not Mars, whan he at Troy was woundit,
Sae terrible a scroinogh soundit,
Whan the hail Hellespont reboundit,
And ky on Ida’s taps confoundit
=Ran down the hills for fray:
Was never heard sae fell a shout
In Fife, and a’ the land about;
The sky kept half a minute dirlin’;
Sclates cam aff roofs o’ houses hurlin’;
A man, up at the Milton-dam,
Swaif’t, and fell down intill a dwam;
He lay an hour ere back he cam!
As whan a bairn a ba’ doth fling,
In a round-heapit barley-bing,
=Some day in funnie glee;
The pickles, whair the ba’ doth licht,
Are dashit round about on flicht,
And up the barn fly out o’ sicht
=E’en to the riggen-tree:
Sae-wyse the Papists, as befel
That terrible warld-waukin’ yell,
Did scatter aff, and skail pell-mell,
=As fast as they could flee:
The freir they ne’er look’t i’ the face;
They took nae time to speir his case;
The nearesl to him first up-banget;
They thocht themsels baith shot and hanget;
The farrest aff, as much fear-fangit,
Like run-de’ils boltit aff and spangit:
Nae wicht had pow’r to ask his brither,
_De'il, man, what means this flicht and flither?_
But drivin’, daddin’ ane anither,
=As fast as legs could loup,
In bangs successive aff they shoalit,
And east the Scores in surges rollit,
=Mair as they mair had skoup;
Terrour flew owr them wi’ his whip,
And scourg’d their pows as they did skip;
He leisch’d the blude out o’ their faces,
Sendin’ it down to ither places,
=That of it mair had need;
Feet flew and flicker’d derf and dire;
Knee-pans and knees amaist took fire
=Wi’ spankin’ and wi’ speed:
They’d need o’ speed; for, at their back,
Wi’ hoot and whoop and lachter’s crack,
Their faemen, Learnin’s gleesome pack,
=Triumphantlie did rattle,
Kickin’ the blindin’ stour on hie,
And hurlin’ sticks and bits o’ tree,
And knockin’ wi’ baith leg and knee
Upon the fatlings aff that flee
=Mair fast than frae a battle;
The Fisher-Knicht, wi’ halbert’s prob,
Their hobblin’ hender-ends did job,
As on they wallop and they bob
=Afore him wi’ a brattle;
The rink-space soon was toom’d o’ men;
Baith tane and tither aff were gane;
Dickeman’s-wynd again was chokit;
The Butts wi’ bodies up was blockit;
The Castle-wynd in screighs out-bokit
=Thick, thick, on Greg’ry’s green
Monks, canons, freirs, that thither flockit
To save themsels and cowl and rocket,
Within the yetts, that stood unlockit
To catch the skails, that maul’d and mockit,
=Cam rushin’ in bedien;
The yells resoundit wi’ their shout;
For ane that gat in o’ that rout,
Ten fuffin’ stood a while thairout:
As keps a lang ae-archit brig
A blashy spate o’ waters big
=Whan Lammas rains fa’ fast;
Aboon the brig the fludes stand heapit;
Below they’re rather laigh and neapit,
=Though down they guller fast:
Sae a’ without, wi’ folks was floodit,
But a’ within, was nae sa crowdit,
=Till by and bye in time,
As ae fat bang dang in anither,
The yets, that gap’t t’ admit that fither,
Swallow’d the haill o’ them thegither,
=Baith shaven-crown and waim.

Whilst at the yetts gaed on this steir
Upon the renk the warden-freir,
Forleitet by his Papish feir,
=Lay doitrify’t and doytet;
His saul, frae whan it swarf’d awa,
Dumfounder’t wi’ the daddin’ fa’
Had never hame return’t at a’,
=Syn on his back he cloytit:
He restit canny at his ease;
Whan owr him faes ran chasin’ faes,
=He kent na o’ their clutter;
Else had he felt the smaiks that time
March owr the mountain o’ his wyme,
He’d nicket them for that sam crime,
And briz’d their bodies into slime,
=As ane would brize fresh-butter:
Aside him stood his steed o’ weir,
That own him nicker’d strang and clear,
Strivin’ to rouse his master dear:—
As he in dwalmin’—fit lay there,
Behauld! king Bacchus in the air
=Descry’d his drearie dools,
And cry’d, Allace me and alack!
That thus my knicht sould lie in wrack
Sae lang, owr-whelmit on his back,
Reckless o’ hippocras or sack,
=Like corp meet for the mools:
He mauna die on that cauld field;
His weird is no the ghaist to yield
=‘Mang stanes and dirt sae sunken;
But canopy’d by dreepin’ table,
Whan’s back-bane is to sit unable,
To yesk his saul awa’ in glore
Upo’ the death-bed o’ the floor,
=For-wakit and for-drunken;
Meantime, to help him frae his dwam,
He wad he nae waur o’ a dram:
So down he flew, and, as he flew,
His radiant shape he did transmew
Into a Tavernar most true,
=Just girt for operation:
His bloizent face, begildet fine
Wi’ rubicunditie divine,
Spak volumes in the praise o’ wine,
=Wi’ obvious celebration;
Ane apron cinctured his waist,
Whairtill a gowden cork-screw lac’d
=Divulg’d his occupation;
His richt-hand grippit firm and fast
A brandy-bottle, big and vast
=As onie in this nation;
His left the glitterin’ glass did grip,
Whairfrae his bumbaz’d knicht mith sip
=Tebbit and animation:
So down he lichtet at his side,
And frae the bottle o’ his pride
=He jirbles out a dram,
And lifts it to the grey-freir’s neis;
To the freir’s harns the fragrance flees;
=That mament back he cam!
He gript it like a man delierit;
He tootit aff the glorious spirit;
=He drownit dead his dwam!
"Anither tass," he cries, "and than"—
He gat it frae the tapster-man;
Nae mair about it; up he sprang
Upon his weir-steed wi’ a bang,
Mair ferdie, and mair swank and strang
=Than when a-field he drew;
His steed he punzied wi’ his heel,
And east the Scores as mad’s the de’il,
Makin’ the chuckie-stanes to reel,
=He gallopil and flew;
Three minutes’ time was scantlins past,
Whan Luther’s people stood aghast
=Within the yett, to view
Baith founder’t Tullidaff and horse,
Wham they had left upon the course,
Postet and set in tenfauld force,
=The tuilzie to renew,
And frae the stranghaulds to rambarre
The shock o’ that near-comin’ war:
"Come on, ye dowfarts! ilka ane;
Fechi me wi’ swerd, or stick, or stane;
Come on, I will recule for nane!"

Quo’ the bauld laird o’ Innergellie
To gley-mou’d Sipsie, — "My dear billie!
Saw you not late yon flastin fellie,
Wi’s circumbendibus o’ bellie,
=Spread flatlins on the yird?"
Quo’ gley-mou’d Sipsie, — "By Sanct Geil!
I now believe in gramarie weel;
And that yon dampnit Papish chiel
Is friendit by man’s fae the de’il,
=That he so soon hath stirr’d!"
Quo’ wise Stravithie, — "I na thocht
That pray’rs to saints or demons broucht
Help till ane founder’t man in oucht,
=Till now that I behauld
Yon bannock-hive set up again,
Thro' help o' Satan or Sanct Blane,
To daur and challenge us, like ane,
=Sae boysterous and bauld."

Thusgates the lairs did tove and crack
As that fierce frier, on courses's back,
=Did barricad the Pends;
Whilst i' th' Cathedral-yett John Annan,
The dean o' puissant pith, was stannin',
And, like a dainty bombard-cannon,
=That ither port defends.
By this time Greg'ry's green was pang
Wi' multitudes that, thick and thrang,
Frae ilk inlett ran in ding-dang;
And the South-street, frae th' Eastburn wynd
Down to the Pends, was pav'd and lin'd
Wi' pows o' bodies a' kinkind:
Sanct Androis town, though wonder-auld,
Did never in her day behauld
A gadderin' sae big and bauld:
Not e'en that glad mid-simmertide,
What the great Kirk was sacrify'd;
What day our good king Robert Bruce,
Wi' a' his heir o' courtiers crouse,
Abbots and deans, and bishops douce,
Drest in their dalmatukes sae spruce,
=Their rings and ither braws;
Wi' the hail pick and wale o' Fife,
Gentle and sempill, man and wife,
Frae town and hamlet, swarmin' rife,
=Appear'd within the wa's;
Grund-flure and gall'rie, nave and wing,
Seem'd but ane universal bing;
Yet, though the kirk inside was thrang,
Wihout there was a michtier bang;
Windock and doors were cramm't and heapit
Wi' wichts and glowrit in and gapit;
The roofs, ilk spire, the great mid-steeple
Were bussin', and owr-clad wi' people:
And whan they skail'd, that michtie flock,
(I've read it in ane auncient boke,)
The kirk-yard's coffins yald and broke
Aneath the press o' livin' fock!
That was a day for folk nae doubt,
But this day that I speak about
Was famouser for rabble-rout:
Like swallin' jaws on rough shores jappin',
Loud, loud their tongues, withouten stppin',
Gaed on thegither, reirdin', rappin':
Rich were their mou's o' gripe and jaip,
And fulmination 'gainst the Paip;
Sedition set ilk gab a-gape:
Dowr were teir threats and their grimaces,
Gurlie and crabbit-like their faces,
As glunsch'd they at the papish places,
Bannin' within their heats and sauls
The vera stanes intill the walls.
And now, respondent to their minds,
Their hands wagg'd wapons a' kinkinds;
And sic varietie o' graith,
Gather't for sailzie and for skaith,
And wieldit by sae wud a band,
Was never seen in onie land;
Cauld airn was now distinctly seen
In sindry shapes baith blunt and keen;
Timmer in baston, cudgel, run,
Owr-head was swappit now and swung;
And stanes were bicker't aff and flung.
Chiefly upon the champions twa,
Stanc'd ilka ane to guard his wa',
The tempest o' the weir did fa';
Great cuddy rungs and gnarlet cuds,
Wi' soundin' harness-thumpin' thuds,
Cam peltin' on their backs in cluds;
The causey-stanes were fierce up-rippet,
And in strang neifs be-grasp't and grippet,
And hurl'd wi' vengeance and wi' rippat:
Stanes, sticks, and bricks, as thick as shot,
Rain'd aff ilk heor's iron coat,
And at his feet did rap and stot;
As when upon a Christmas cloud
King Johnie Frost doth ride abroad,
=And frae his wallet flings
Owr a grat city's houses' taps
His hail in mickle rattlin' draps,
The aff the eaves upo' the street
Come stottin' at the burghers' feet,
=And settle there in bings;
Sae stanes, stobs, sticks, come peltin' aff
Dean Annan and frier Tullidaff:
But nae the less for a' that stour,
They stand immoveable and dowr,
And naething reck that ‘saultin’ shower.

But whan bauld Innergellie saw
How thir twa bangsters foil’d them a’,
And row’d the surge o’ weir awa’
=Aff frae the Papish houffs,
His lip wi’ wreth wox big and red,
And to the fisher-knicht he said,
"Ah! shame on mine and on your head!
=Twa caitiff cowart couffs!
That here behauld, but care or cark,
Yon fat-envelop’d chieftains stark,
Twa blaitie-bums in iron sark,
=Withstandin’ a’ our feir;
While we, wham for our rigs and lands
Weil it becomes to use our brands,
And shaw ensample to the bands,
Stand taiglin’, daiglin’ wi’ our hands,
=And whillie-whain’ here:
Ah! ill we do deserve to dine,
And gust our gabs wi’ dribs o’ wine,
If we, to th’ eyes o’ lawly hine,
Eschew the feats and wark divine
=O’ hardiness and weir;
Gang you then, and wi’ fearsome dunt
Attack Sir Tullidaff in front,
Whilst I the kirk-yard-dyke shall mount,
And sailzie wi' impetuous brunt
=Dean annan in his rear:
And never may we tout again
A tass o' claret or champagne,
But sit dry-mou'd wi' drinkin' men,
If we do not wi' micht and main
=Dumfounder dean and freir."
Sae speakin', wi' a machtie spang;
Atap o' the wa' he stood nat lang,
But down intill the inside flang
=Himsel' wi' awsome beir;
His armour, as he fell, did clank;
His feet amang the grass-graves sank;
He fand himsel', baith front and flank,
Ere well he wist, wi' Papists' rank
=Surroundit far and near;
Round him they rush'd, and push't, and pecht
To overturn him wi' their swecht,
Or wi' their bellies' waddlin wecht,
=Ere he was well awere,
To gruss him down intill a graff,
=Withouten kist or bier;
He at their waddlin' troop did lauff,
And wi' his pricklin' gude pyk-staff
Made them rebound and wintle aff,
To shelter them frae buff and baff
=Within the kirk and queir.

Dean Annan a' this time was thrang
Rebuttin' his confrontin' gang,
And keppin' on his cuirass strang
The stanes that on him dush't and dang;
=Ah! little did he think,
That in his rear a warlike man
Was meditatin' wicket plan,
And comin' up as fast's he can
=To gie his back a clink!
The draftie laird did soon draw near,
And, hidlins hoverin' in his rear,
Wi' searchin' een, like pawky scout,
Explor'd his rearward round-about,
To find some part defenceless out
=Whairthro' to prick and punzie;
He soon discern'd, wi' gleesome heart,
Ane out-post, ane unguarded pairt,
That seem'd to court cauld iron's smart,
Stretchin' itsel' for straik o' dart,
=Frae neck-bane down to lunzie;
"_Sanct clune," he said, "direck my dird,
And bring this fallow to the yird!"
That mament he a straik let gird
That throu' the faeman's breeches birr'd,
=And in his breech did settle;
The man, bumbazit at the smart,
Cast round his richt hand to the part,
And fand intrench'd the dulefu' dart,
That sent a prinklin' to his heart
=Mair fierce that burr or nettle:
His heart, being dirlet to the quick,
Gaes whiltie-whaltie, fast and thick,
=Wi' quiverin and quakes;
His een, bein' in the mirligoes,
Ae single styme afore his nose
=They couldna see for glaiks:
Sae down he tummiet in a drow,
And owr-and-owr did wreil and row;
His frichtit ghaist, un-housit now,
=A while his flesh forsakes;—
Strange! that ae punzie on the back
Should sooner bring that carl to wrack
Than sticks and cudgels, monie a hunder,
Hurl’d at him wi’ a hideous lounder,
And peltin’ on his front like thunder:
Sic droll bout-gates, sic sma’ mean means,
Bryng michtie kings, and dukes and thanes
Aft to their laighest marrow-banes!

As he lay wamblin’, dead amaist,
Forleitit by his ain dear ghaist,
Behauld! the faemen wham he fac’d,
=And frae the yett aff-fendit,
Seein’ its buirdly bulwerk gane,
Grew galyard now, and crouse ilk ane,
And throu’ the yett wi’ micht and main
=Merrilie spang’d and stendit.
There let them spang and stend a wee
Till we look round about and see
How Tullidaff is comin’ on
Wi’ the Fisher-knicht and ither fone.
The Fisher-knicht, whan that he saw
His brither laird owr-loup the wa’,
And, Alexander-like, furth-shaw
=Example in that strife,
Now thocht it guid time to begin
To shaw (his saul bein’ in that pin)
He car’d as little for his skin
=As onie man in Fife;
He saw how Tullidaff the proud
Sat on his weir-steed vap’rin’ loud,
Obstructin’ in his prideful’ mood
=The Pends to all and each,
Cryin’, — "Ye dowfarts ! ilka ane,
Ha! fecht me now wi’ swerd or stane!
Come on, I will recule for nane!"
=And sic like flastin’ speech;
Whilk raisit till ane unco heicht
The crabbitness o’ that guid knicht,
To see himsel and a’ his micht
Sae mockit and sae put to sleicht
=By sic a bladderand freir:
Instant he frae his henchman’s hand,
That near him did perfurnish’d stand
=Wi’ a’ his battle-gear,
Grippit and grasp’t wi’ michtie strength
A pow-axe of enormous length,
=Whase vera sicht strack fear;
Its airn, curv’d like a three-nichts’ moon,
Heich quivered his head aboon
=A dozen fit and mair;
The folk that stood about the knicht
Flew back wi’ driddour and wi’ fricht,
As they beheld the monstrous sicht
=Rise owr them in the air;
Its vera sough did freeze their bluid,
And on their scalps, that birsy stood,
=Garr’d prinkle ilka hair:
Wi’ baith his arms up i’ the sky,
Typhoeus-like, he held it high,
And, thro’ the press advancin’ nigh
=To that big braggart there,
He brocht it down wi’ siccan force
Upon the forehead o’ his horse,
A thunderbolt wi’ fudder-flash
Couldna hae gien sae fell a smash,
=Or made sae loud a rair;
The weir-steed’s skull was yerk’d in twa;
Ae half flew to the wastern wa’;
The ither half, baith bluid and bane,
Was daddit to the eastern ane,
And stack upon ane ayslar stane:
Sae swift and swipper was the deed,
That for a little while the steed
Withouten either harns nor heid
=Stood, after he was slain,
Immoveable in that same stede,
Ere he perceiv’d that he was dead,
=Or that his head was gane:
But by-and-bye, on side and back
He devell’d wi’ a deadly swack;
Sir Tullidaff, amid the wrack,
=Down to the ground came tumblin’,
Wi’ a’ his cumbrous battle-graith,
His wecht o’ flesche and armour baith,
=About him rattlin’, rumblin’;
The monie-archit pends a’ round
Wi’ clang and bang did ring and sound,
As down he dunner’d on the ground;
But it sae chanced that his horse
(Whilk now was but ane headless corse)
Had drappit on his schank and thie,
And briz’d them sair and heavilie,
=Wi’ mickle pyne and stress,
Sae that th’ o’erwhelmit freir in vain
Wrigglet and warslet fast and fain
To get his shank-bane eas’d again
=Frae sic a sair distress;
And skelloch’d at ane awfu’ rate,
As onie man in sic a state
=Would do to get redress:
His faes they did na care a dout
For a’ that he did yell and yout,
But owr him wi’ a boastfu’ shout
=They ran wi’ fitterin’ feet;
In ae half-minute frae his fa’,
The pends were cramm’t frae wa’ to wa’,
As in they bangit, great and sma’,
=Outrageous fram the street;
The portals o’ the houffs o’ sin
Were now wide ope to let them in,
And shouts without and screams within
=Proclaimit round about
That now was come the weird-fix’d hour
Ordain’d to break the Papish power,
And frae her lust-engend’rin’ bower
=To haurl the Harlot out:
That hour, it’s said, the mickle bell
In the great steeple, o’ itsel’,
Did toll a heavie dismal knell,
As harbinger t’ announce and tell
=The waes that did owr-hing:
And Arnold’s nakit ghaist was seen
(They said, that saw it wi’ their een,)
Loupin’ hip-hop frae spire to spire,
And skiftin’ owr the roofs like fire,
=Like ane unsettlet thing;
And aye he blubber’t and he blobbit
And, _Fare ye weil!_ aye sich’t and sobbit,
=And sair his hands did wring;
Than south to France he turn’d his ee,
And loupit clean out-owr the sea
=Wi’ ane amazin’ spring:
And, frae the marble that did pave
The mools o’ Lamberton’s cauld grave,
Big bluidy draps, wi’ elritch grane,
As if the man below did mane,
Barst out and smotter’t a’ the stane:
Ilk buried bishop seem'd to howl,
Ilk image did respond and yowl,
Ilk gallerie sent out a gowl,
And the great altar gave a growl!
Sic awfu’ signs, that awfu’ hour,
Portendit the approachin’ stowre,
The rushin’ down o’ kirk and towr,
And downfa’ o’ the Papish power!