The Aged Landman's Advice to His Son

O! CHERISH Faith and Truth, till Death
Shall claim thy forfeit clay,
And wander not one finger's breadth
From GOD'S appointed way;
So shall thy pilgrim pathway be

O'er flowers that brightly bloom;
So shalt thou, rich in hope and free
From terror face the tomb;
Then wilt thou handle spade and scythe,

With joyous heart and soul;
Thy water-jug shall make thee blithe
As brimming purple bowl.
All things but work the sinner woe,

For, do his worst or best,
The devil drives him to and fro,
And never lets him rest.
Him glads no Spring, no sky outrolled,

No mellow, yellow field;
His one sole good and god is gold;
His heart is warped and steeled;
The winds that blow, the streams that flow,

Affright the craven slave;
Peace flies him, and he does not know
Kest even in his grave!
For he, when spectral midnight reigns,

Must burst each coffin-band,
And as a pitch-black dog in chains
Before his house-door stand.
The spinners, who with wheel on arm

Belated home repair,
Will quake, and cross themselves from harm
To see the monster there;
And every spinning crone of this

Terrific sight will tell,
And wish the villain in the abyss
And fire of hottest hell.
Old Grimes was all his life a hound,

A genuine devil's brand;
He counter-ploughed his neighbours' ground;
And robbed them of their land:
Now, fire-clad, see him plough with toil

The same land everywhere,
Upturning all night long the soil,
With white-hot burning share:
Himself like blazing straw-sheaf burns

Behind the glowing plough;
And so he burns and so upturns,
Till Morning bares her brow.
The baillie who, without remorse,

Shot stags and fleeced the poor,
With one grim dog, on fiery horse,
Hunts nightly o'er the moor;
Oft, as a rugged-coated bear,

He climbs a gnarled pole;
Oft, as a goat, must leave his lair,
And through the hamlet stroll.
The riot-loving priest who crammed

His chests with ill-got gold,
Still haunts the chancel, black and damned,
Each night when twelve has tolled;
He howls aloud with dismal yells,

That startle aisle and fanes,
Or in the vestry darkly tells
His church-accursed gains.
The squire who drank and gamed pell-mell

The helpless widow's all,
Now driven along by blasts from Hell,
Goes coached to Satan's ball;
His blue frock, dipped in Hell's foul font,

"With sulphur-flames is lined;
One devil holds the reins in front,
Two devils ride behind.
Then, Son! be just and true till Death

Shall claim thy forfeit clay;
And wander not one finger's breadth
From GOD'S revealed way.
So shall warm tears bedew in showers

The grass above thy head,
And lilies and all odorous flowers,
O'erarch thy last low bed.