Who with ready weapon bure, Cried aloud : · God save rs i Call yo epward him who stood Ankle deep, in Latzený Mond, With the brave, Gustavus jibo "Nay, I do not need thy sword, Comrade mine, asid Ury's land: * Put it up I pray thees Passive to His holy will, Trust I in my Master still, Even though, bo slay me." Bry's Mock of knave and sport or child, In his own good city! Speak the word, and, master mine, As we charged on Tilly's line, And his Walloon lancers, Smiting through their midst we'll teach Civil look and decent speech To these boyish prancers!" "Marvel not, mine ancient friend, "Give me joy that in His name "Happier I, with loss of all, Hunted, outlawed, held in thrall, With few friends to greet me, Than when reeve and squire were seen, Riding out from Aberdeen, With bared heads, to meet me. "When each good wife, o'er and o'er, Blessed me as I passed her door; And the snooded daughter, Through her casement glancing down, "Hard to feel the stranger's scoff, But the Lord His own rewards, Warm and fresh and living. |