Then Scotia wept, on Bothwell’s plain

Then Scotia wept, on Bothwell’s plain, O’er her lone Covenanters slain; Her zealous clergy chased abroad, (Deem’d martyrs in the cause of God,) Before the fierce militia fled, Denied a home to rest their head; But as the harmless fawn will bay When hope has left him for dismay, So, in affliction’s furnace school’d, The blood grew warm that might have cool’d, And firmer for their rights they stood, And burst their chains though link’d in blood; Then in the Bass’s dungeons strong Was pouring Babel’s captive song; And kiss’d their bonds those sterner few, Whom threats nor torture could subdue. Peden, who, with prophetic eye, Did Bothwell’s fatal fight descry; Brave Earlston (of Gordon’s line,) Whose sword sharp-edged for Christ did shine; Hogg, Rule, and Erskine, men of yore, Who Scotland’s pulpit honours bore; And Blackadder, whose pious toil Resembled his of Patmos isle, Till, like the dove that found no rest, He sought in heaven a peaceful nest.