What is Worth Living For is Worth Fighting and Dying For

In his poem "On Seeing the Reformation Monument, Geneva," the Hungarian poet Gyula Illyes, writes (What You Have Almost Forgotten, p. 67) in connection with religious wars, such as the Thirty Years' War, of a famous Hungarian riddle:

The net result, written upon the blackboard --
-- the continent you wiped clean with your armies --
was the mere answer to a foolish riddle,
and that only possible in Hungarian,
where Protestants call themselves 'keresztyen'
and Catholics call themselves 'keresztyeny'
both meaning 'Christian'. And so the riddle runs:
'Why is a keresztyen more than a kereszteny?'
Did you really require the blood
of so many millions dead, before
you could distill this particle of sense,
this little 'y', and when, forgetful of
your duty, you took up the sword and hacked
the Gordian knot of Christian brotherhood,

Many look at history, with its religious wars, crusades, Irish Troubles, and all the spilled blood in the name of Jesus, and ask, Why should anyone fight for religion? In nomine Domini incipit omne malum—In the name of the Lord begins all evil; or so the saying goes. The spectre of the Catholic Crusades, the Spanish Inquisition, the Islamic Taliban, and most especially, an "old Testament God," are all often invoked whenever the concept of fighting for religious liberty is addressed in modern discourse.

The image of conversion by the sword, though it has no historical connection to Calvin's Geneva, Knox's Scotland or Winthrop's Massachusetts, is a powerful lens through which myopic moderns view all religious wars of the past. Forgotten is the defensive nature of the Dutch and Puritan Declarations of Independence, forgotten is the tyranny which the Huguenots resisted with their lives for the sake of conscience, forgotten is the fact that Ferdinand II, Holy Roman Emperor, wished to impose Catholic uniformity of worship upon his Protestant subjects, which provoked the Thirty Year's War.

There are those who believe that it is unlawful for any Christians to take up the sword in defense of anything. There are also those who question whether it is worth fighting for or dying for anything.

Albert Camus:

There are causes worth dying for, but none worth killing for.

I would contend, however, that whatsoever is worth living for is worth fighting for (lawfully) and, if need be, dying for. Life, liberty, true religion, these all matter enough to fight for and die for.

Aragorn (The Fellowship of the Ring):

If by my life or death I can protect you, I will. You have my sword.

A good man will give his life for his friends, John 15.13; Rom. 5.7. According to the Scriptures, a man, even an unbeliever, who gives his life for his friends, family or country, or even a stranger, has done something noble, a civil good, and is therefore a hero.

William Wallace (Braveheart):

Aye, fight and you may die. Run, and you'll live... at least a while. And dying in your beds, many years from now, would you be willin' to trade ALL the days, from this day to that, for one chance, just one chance, to come back here and tell our enemies that they may take our lives, but they'll never take... OUR FREEDOM!

On a personal as well as a national level, there are many reasons to take up arms. It is a matter of wisdom, and certainly many foolish reasons, often rooted in pride or the love of money, have been the basis for many bloody conflicts throughout human history, often with a veneer of religious justification attached to them. The Anglo-Dutch trade wars of the 17th century, between two ostensibly Protestant nations were a disgrace and a grief to the godly of that age. In our day, the spectacle of wars in the Middle East over oil is repugnant to most of us, and rightly so (I speak in general not necessarily of the current conflicts in Afghanistan or Iraq). National pride is a terrible reason to sacrifice the precious blood of its heroic men.

Chariots of Fire:

Lord Cadogan: Hear, hear. In my day it was King first and God after.
Duke of Sutherland: Yes, and the War To End Wars bitterly proved your point!

Duke of Sutherland: A sticky moment, George.
Lord Birkenhead: Thank God for Lindsay. I thought the lad had us beaten.
Duke of Sutherland: He did have us beaten, and thank God he did.
Lord Birkenhead: I don't quite follow you.
Duke of Sutherland: The "lad", as you call him, is a true man of principles and a true athlete. His speed is a mere extension of his life, its force. We sought to sever his running from himself.
Lord Birkenhead: For his country's sake, yes.
Lord Birkenhead: No sake is worth that, least of all a guilty national pride.

The use of Jesus' name to justify the unlawful taking of human life is a matter of grief to all who count his name precious. It should be remembered that just because his name is put forth as justification for the taking of life -- which is not even the case with the Taliban -- does not mean that it is done according to the mind of Christ (ie., with respect to the sixth commandment). Yet, where he has called us by his Word and Providence to protect that which is good and precious, we have a duty to fight and, if need be, to die in defense of the good.

J.W. Campbell:

I think it is true to say that religious truth, being the greatest thing in the world, is worth fighting for, and if attacked should be defended at all costs.

The kingdom of God, though spiritual, is not at odds with civil liberty, but rather it alone provides the true basis for it. And those charged with upholding civil liberty -- magistrates, and the soldiers and law enforcement officers under them, in the lawful exercise of their just duties -- bear the sword not in vain to protect the good and punish the evil, Rom. 13.4 (hence we pray for kings and all those in authority that we may lead a quiet and peaceable life in all godliness [first table of the law] and honesty [second table of the law], 1 Tim. 2.2).

John Kennedy of Dingwall:

[The Establishment Principle is not only] worth living for, but a principle worth dying for.

Of all the causes to fight and die for, those of life and civil liberty and, most especially, true religious freedom, are most excellent. To fight and die for the life and freedom of others, when called upon by Providence, is noble and virtuous; to fight and die in defense of the Lord's cause, when the circumstances are just and appropriate, is truly "precious in the Lord's sight" (Ps. 116.15).

Patrick Henry:

What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!

The Scottish Covenanters who fought -- defensively -- for Christ's Crown & Covenant were also heroes. They took up arms not for personal gain, nor for economic profit or clannish pride, but for the prerogatives of the true head and king of the Church. True religion is the most precious of causes for which to fight and die, "For whosoever will save his life shall lose it: and whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it" (Matt. 16.25; see also Matt. 10.39; 16.26; Mark. 8.35; Luke 9.24; John 12.25; etc.)


Robert Burns, The Solemn League and Covenant:

The Solemn League and Covenant
Now brings a smile, now brings a tear;
But sacred Freedom, too, was theirs:
If thou'rt a slave, indulge thy sneer.

The Covenanters' Grace

Long before it was popularized as "The Selkirk Grace" by Robert Burns, this saying was often recited "in the south-western province of Scotland before the days of Burns. [It was] always called the Covenanter's Grace" (Robert Chambers, Select Writings of Robert Chambers, Vol. 7, p. 317):

Some hae meat that canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it;
But we hae meat, and we can eat,
For which the Lord be thankit!

Thanks Be To God For Mountains!

As the mountains are round about Jerusalem, so the LORD is round about his people from henceforth even for ever. (Ps. 125.2)

Stonewall Jackson, Letter to his sister, Lexington, Virginia, September 7, 1852:

Of all places which have come under my observation in the United States, this little village is the most beautiful.

Robert Burns, My Heart's in the Highlands:

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
A-chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.

William Howitt, The Book of Seasons; or, The Calendar of Nature, pp. 262-268:

Mountains! how one's heart leaps up at the very word! There is a charm connected with mountains so powerful, that the merest mention of them, the merest sketch of their magnificent features, kindles the imagination, and carries the spirit at once into the bosom of their enchanted regions. How the mind is filled with their vast solitude! how the inward eye is fixed on their silent, their sublime, their everlasting peaks! How our heart bounds to the music of their solitary cries, to the tinkle of their gushing rills, to the sound of their cataracts! How inspiring are the odours that breathe from the upland turf, from the rock-hung flower, from the hoary and solemn pine! how beautiful are those lights and shadows thrown abroad, and that fine transparent haze which is diffused over the valleys and lower slopes, as over a vast, inimitable picture!
...
We delight to think of the people of mountainous regions; we please our imaginations with their picturesque and quiet abodes; with their peaceful secluded lives, striking and unvarying costumes, and primitive manners. We involuntarily gives to the mountaineer heroic and elevated qualities. He lives amongst the noble objects, and must imbibe some of their nobility; he lives amongst the elements of poetry, and must be poetical; he lives where his fellow-beings are far, far separated from their kind, and surrounded by the sternness and the perils of savage nature; his social affections must therefore be proportionably concentrated, his home-ties lively and strong; but, more than all, he lives within the barriers, the strongholds, the very last refuge which Nature herself has reared to preserve alive liberty in the earth, to preserve to man his highest hopes, his noblest emotions, his dearest treasures, his faith, his freedom, his hearth and his home. How glorious do those mountain-ridges appear when we look upon them as the unconquerable abodes of free hearts; as the stern, heaven-built walls from which the few, the feeble, the persecuted, the despised, the helpless child, the delicate woman, have from age to age, in their last perils, in all their weaknesses and emergencies, when power and cruelty were ready to swallow them up, looked down and beheld the million waves of despotism break at their feet: -- have seen the rage of murderous armies, and tyrants, the blasting spirit of ambition, fanaticism, and crushing domination recoil from the bases in despair! -- "Thanks be to God for mountains!" is often the exclamation of my heart as I trace the History of the World. From age to age, they have been the last friends of man. In a thousand extremities they have saved him. What great hearts have throbbed in their defiles from the days of Leonidas to those of Andreas Hofer! What lofty souls, what tender hearts, what poor and persecuted creatures have they sheltered in their stony bosoms from the weapons and tortures of their fellow-men!

Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones
Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold!

was the burning exclamation of Milton's agonized and indignant spirit, as he beheld those sacred bulwarks of freedom for once violated by the disturbing demons of the earth; and the sound of his fiery and lamenting appeal to Heaven will be echoed in every generous soul to the end of time.

Thanks be to God for mountains! The variety which they impart to the glorious bosom of our planet were no small advantage; the beauty which they spread out to our vision in their woods and waters, their crags and slopes, their clouds and atmospheric hues, were a splendid gift; the sublimity which they pour into our deepest souls from the majestic aspects; the poetry which breathes from their streams, and dells, and airy heights, from the sweet abodes, the garbs and manners of their inhabitants, the songs and legends which have awoke in them, were a proud heritage to imaginative minds; but what are all these when the thought comes, that without mountains the spirit of man must have bowed to the brutal and the base, and probably have sunk to the monotonous level of the unvaried plain?

When I turn my eyes upon the map of the world, and behold how wonderfully the countries where our faith was nurtured, where our liberties were generated, where our philosophy and literature, the fountains of our intellectual grace and beauty, sprang up, were as distinctly walled out by God's hand with mountain ramparts from the irruptions and interruptions of barbarism, as if at the especial prayer of the early father's of man's destinies, I am lost in an exulting admiration. Look at the bold barriers of Palestine! see how the infant liberties of Greece were sheltered from the vast tribes of the uncivilized North by the heights of Haemus and Rhodope! behold how the Alps describe their magnificent crescent, inclining their opposite extreminities to the Adriactic and Tyrrhene Seas, locking up Italy from the Gallic and Teutonic hordes till the power and spirit of Rome had reached their maturity, and she had opened the wide forest of Europe to the light, spread far her laws and language, and planted the seeds of many mighty nations!

Thanks to God for mountains! Their colossal firmness seems almost to break the current of time itself; the geologist in them searches for traces of the earlier world, and it is there too that man, resisting the revolutions of lower regions, retains through innumerable years his habits and his rights. While a multitude of changes has remoulded the people of Europe, -- while languages, and laws, and dynasties, and creeds, have passed over it like shadows over the landscape, -- the children of the Celt and the Goth, who fled to the mountains a thousand years ago, are found there now, and show us in face and figure, in language and garb, what their fathers were; show us a fine contrast with the modern tribes dwelling below and around them; and show us, moreover, how adverse is the spirit of the mountain to mutability, and that there the fiery heart of Freedom is found for ever.

J.G. Machen, Mountains and Why We Love Them:

Can the love of the mountains be conveyed to those who have it not? I am not sure. Perhaps if a man is not born with that love it is almost as hopeless to try to bring it to him as it would be to explain what color is to a blind man or to try to make President Roosevelt understand the Constitution of the United States. But on the whole I do believe that the love of the mountains can at least be cultivated, and if I can do anything whatever toward getting you to cultivate it, the purpose of this little paper will be amply attained.

One thing is clear—if you are to learn to love the mountains you must go up them by your own power. There is more thrill in the smallest hill in Fairmount Park if you walk up it than there is in the grandest mountain on earth if you go up it in an automobile. There is one curious thing about means of locomotion—the slower and simpler and the closer to nature they are, the more real thrill they give. I have got far more enjoyment out of my two feet than I did out of my bicycle; and I got more enjoyment out of my bicycle than I ever have got out of my motor car; and as for airplanes—well, all I can say is that I wouldn't lower myself by going up in one of the stupid, noisy things! The only way to have the slightest inkling of what a mountain is is to walk or climb up it.

Now I want you to feel something of what I feel when I am with the mountains that I love. To that end I am not going to ask you to go with me to any out-of-the-way place, but I am just going to take you to one of the most familiar tourist's objectives, one of the places to which one goes on every ordinary European tour—namely, to Zermatt—and in Zermatt I am not going to take you on any really difficult climbs but merely up one or two of the peaks by the ordinary routes which modern mountaineers despise. I want you to look at Zermatt for a few minutes not with the eyes of a tourist, and not with the eyes of a devotee of mountaineering in its ultra-modern aspects, but with the eyes of a man who, whatever his limitations, does truly love the mountains.
...
Then there is something else bout that view from the Matterhorn. I felt it partly at least as I stood there, and I wonder whether you can feel it with me. It is this. You are standing there not in any ordinary country, but in the very midst of Europe, looking out from its very centre. Germany just beyond where you can see to the northeast, Italy to the south, France beyond those snows of Mont Blanc. There, in that glorious round spread out before you, that land of Europe, humanity has put forth its best. There it has struggled; there it has fallen; there it has looked upward to God. The history of the race seems to pass before you in an instant of time, concentrated in that fairest of all the lands of the earth. You think of the great men whose memories you love, the men who have struggled there in those countries below you, who have struggled for light and freedom, struggled for beauty, struggled above all for God's Word. And then you think of the present and its decadence and its slavery, and you desire to weep. It is a pathetic thing to contemplate the history of mankind.
...
The alternative is that there is a God—a God who in His own good time will bring forward great men again to do His will, great men to resist the tyranny of experts and lead humanity out again into the realms of light and freedom, great men, above all, who will be messengers of His grace. There is, far above any earthly mountain peak of vision, a God high and lifted up who, though He is infinitely exalted, yet cares for His children among men.

J.A. Wylie, Wanderings and Musings in the Valleys of the Waldenses, pp. 44-45:

We bid the garish plain, with its white towns and glancing spires, farewell, and we enter the sanctuary of the mountains. Ye solemn shadows, hail! Ye peaks that rise to heaven, untrodden by foot of man, welcome! Ye châlets that look out so sweetly from your nests of verdure -- ye frowning rocks -- ye peaks that greet the morning -- ye majestic pines -- ye gleaming snows -- ye herdsmen keeping your watch on the far-off pasture lands, all through the summer's day and star-lit night -- ye mists that now veil, now reveal, the glories amid which you move -- ye clouds, now dark with thunder, now flaming in gold -- ye rivulets, that sing with quiet gladness in the shade -- ye cataracts, that leap, with shouting joy, from cliff to cliff -- ye torrents, that send up to heaven in eternal thunder your hymns of praise, welcome all! welcome! welcome!

To See Things As They Really Are

Jonathan Mitchell, "A Letter...to His Friend" (1649), quoted in Charles E. Hambrick-Stowe, The Practice of Piety: Puritan Devotional Disciplines in Seventeenth-Century New England, p. 91:

And truly when I am most near God,
I have no greater request than this
for my self and you, that God would use
any means to make us see things really as they are,
and pound our hearts all to pieces,
and make indeed sin most bitter,
and Christ most sweet, that we might be
both humbled and Comforted to purpose!

Robert Burns, To a Louse (1786):

O wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!

[O would some Power the gift to give us
To see ourselves as others see us!]

The Wonder Child

Dr. John Brown (1810-1882), physician and essayist (1810-1882), son of John Brown of Edinburgh the Biblical commentator (1784-1858) and great-grandson of John Brown of Haddington (1722-1787), wrote among other works an essay about the young child prodigy Marjorie Fleming (1803-1811), who died at the age of eight of meningitis. She kept a diary for the last eighteen months of her life which, along with her poems, provides a written testimonial to that which all who knew her could affirm: she knew life above and beyond her years. She was raised a Presbyterian, and records faithfully when she left off her prayers, and other thoughts that one might find in a diary. She knew her history lessons as well as current events and versified them in the most delightful, entertaining way. Sir Walter Scott was said to have considered her his "pet" and described her as "the most extraordinary creature" he had ever known. Mark Twain wrote his own essay about her and called her "the world's child," describing her as "thunderstorm and sunshine." Robert Louis Stevenson called her "one of the greatest works of God." Though largely forgotten today, her life (though brief) and writings touched so many. The day before she died -- it was the Christian Sabbath -- she sat up in bed and read Robert Burns' Stanzas on the Prospect of Death, which Dr. Brown describes as "the publican's prayer in paraphrase." So young to be pondering such verses and yet the very next day she went to be with her Maker.

Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene?
Have I so found it full of pleasing charms?
Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between-
Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms,
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms?
Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode?
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms:
I tremble to approach an angry God,
And justly smart beneath His sin-avenging rod.

Fain would I say, "Forgive my foul offence,"
Fain promise never more to disobey;
But, should my Author health again dispense,
Again I might desert fair virtue's way;
Again in folly's part might go astray;
Again exalt the brute and sink the man;
Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray
Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan?
Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation ran?

O Thou, great Governor of all below!
If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee,
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow,
Or still the tumult of the raging sea:
With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me,
Those headlong furious passions to confine,
For all unfit I feel my pow'rs to be,
To rule their torrent in th' allowed line;
O, aid me with Thy help, Omnipotence Divine!

Snapshots of Family Worship

Hughes Oliphant Old, "Matthew Henry and the Puritan Discipline of Family Prayer," in John H. Leith, ed., Calvin Studies VII: Papers Presented at a Colloquium on Calvin Studies (1994, Davidson College, Davidson College Presbyterian Church, Davidson, North Carolina), p. 69:

What the liturgy of the hours was for monks of the Middle Ages, the discipline of family prayer was for the Puritans. The typical Puritan home of seventeenth-century England may not have looked much like the splendid cloisters of Cluny, but there was something in common. The daily life of both Catholic monk and Puritan family man was ordered by a rhythm of prayer and praise. With Cistercian solemnity, the Puritan household would gather around the dinner table, father, mother, children, a maiden aunt, perhaps servants or an apprentice. A metrical psalm was sung. Then the head of the house would open up a great leather bound family Bible and read a chapter. This finished, the father would lead in prayer. The Puritans, whether on the Connecticut frontier or in the heart of London, whether they were Cambridge scholars or Shropshire cotters, gave great importance to maintaining a daily discipline of family prayer.

Robert Burns, The Cotter's Saturday Night:

The chearfu' supper done, wi serious face,
They, round the ingle, form a circle wide;
The sire turns o'er, wi patriarchal grace,
The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride.
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside,
His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare;
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He wales a portion with judicious care;
And 'Let us worship God!' he says with solemn air.

They chant their artless notes in simple guise,
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim;
Perhaps Dundee's wild-warbling measures rise,
Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name;
Or noble Elgin beets the heavenward flame,
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays:
Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame;
The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise;
Nae unison hae they, with our Creator's praise.

The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
How Abram was the friend of God on high;
Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage
With Amalek's ungracious progeny;
Or, how the royal Bard did groaning lie
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire;
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire;
Or other holy Seers that tune the sacred lyre.

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme:
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;
How He, who bore in Heaven the second name,
Had not on earth whereon to lay His head;
How His first followers and servants sped;
The precepts sage they wrote to many a land:
How he, who lone in Patmos banished,
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand,
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd by Heaven's command.

Then kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal King,
The saint, the father, and the husband prays:
Hope 'springs exulting on triumphant wing.'
That thus they all shall meet in future days,
There, ever bask in uncreated rays,
No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear,
Together hymning their Creator's praise,
In such society, yet still more dear;
While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere.

The Family Altar: Or, The Duty, Benefits, and Mode of Conducting Family Worship (1844), pp. 65-67:

Another, and perhaps better way, is to make the members of the family supply the commentary themselves. This evening, before it is so late that you are all sleepy, you sit round the table, each with his Bible open before him; and the passage selected is Isa 45.

'Thus saith the Lord to his anointed, to Cyrus, whose right hand I have holden, to subdue nations before him; and I will loose the loins of kings, to open before him the two-leaved gates; and the gates shall not be shut.'

Father. The prophet has been foretelling the fall of Babylon, and here he names its conqueror. Mary, what is his name?

Mary. Cyrus.

Father. Does any one know how long after this it was before Cyrus made his appearance? Can no one tell? George, your Bible has got the date on its margin. Can you tell when Isaiah uttered this prophecy?

George. About 712 years before Christ.

Father. Now if you will look to the beginning of Ezra, you will see the first year of Cyrus set down there.

George. Before Christ 536.

Father. Then how long before had the Lord called Cyrus by his name?

George. Nearly 200 years.

Father. It is not very long since John and Henry finished the Life of Cyrus. Do you remember any facts which illustrate this prophecy?

Henry. The Lord says, 'I have holden his right hand to subdue nations before him.' Cyrus subdued the Lydians with their rich King Croesus, the Phrygians, the Phoenicians, and many more, as well as the Babylonians.

John. Yes; and when he took Babylon, 'the gates were not shut.' For the people were all drinking and diverting themselves, when he dried up the river; and had forgot to shut the gates at the end of the streets which open into the river—so that Cyrus had nothing to do but march down the dry channel, and then climb up the banks into the city.

Father. Very true—but do you remember nothing more about 'opening the two-leaved gates?'

Henry. O, yes! When the King of Babylon heard the uproar in the city, he sent to find out what was the matter, and when they were opening the palace gates, to let out the king's messenger, the Persians rushed in and killed the king.

Try to bring out some lesson that may be needed that very day. You read at morning worship that verse, 1 Cor 10:31.

'Whether, therefore, ye eat or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God.'

Father. What does that mean?

John. That every thing, however little, we are to do it so as to please God.

Father. Quite so. It means that you children, when learning your lessons, or at play—that Sarah down stairs, and your father in his counting-room, should all remember that we have a Father in heaven, and should do every thing, the little things and the great things, in the way that pleases Him.

The passage which you mean to read with your family, read carefully over beforehand; and consider what are its most striking points and most useful lessons; and a little practice will make you a good family expositor.

Happy Birthday Robbie Burns!

January 25, 2009 marks the 250th birthday of Scotland's national poet, Robert Burns. While not a man with a godly reputation, he was a gifted writer. Earlier, I posted my favorite of his poems, The Cotter's Saturday Night. Now, as a further tribute to his memory, with a glass raised high (skipping the haggis), here are a few more lines worth recalling from his skilled hand.

The Solemn League and Covenant

The Solemn League and Covenant
Now brings a smile, now brings a tear;
But sacred Freedom, too, was theirs:
If thou'rt a slave, indulge thy sneer.

Epistle to James Tennant of Glenconner:

My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin’,
Perusing [John] Bunyan, [John] Brown [of Haddington], an’ [Thomas] Boston,

The Cotter's Saturday Night

One of my favorite poems is The Cotter's Saturday Night by Robert Burns, written in 1785, which I post here on a Saturday afternoon.

The Cotter's Saturday Night

Inscribed to R. Aiken, Esq., of Ayr.

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the Poor.
Gray

My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend!
No mercenary bard his homage pays;
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end,
My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise:
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,
The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene,
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways,
What Aiken in a cottage would have been;
Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there I ween!

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;
The short'ning winter-day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh;
The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose:
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, -
This night his weekly moil is at an end,
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes,
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend.

At length his lonely cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through
To meet their dead, wi' flichterin noise and glee.
His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie,
His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile,
The lisping infant, prattling on his knee,
Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile,
And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil.

Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in,
At service out, amang the farmers roun';
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin
A cannie errand to a neibor town:
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown,
In youthfu' bloom-love sparkling in her e'e-
Comes hame, perhaps to shew a braw new gown,
Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee,
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.

With joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet,
And each for other's weelfare kindly speirs:
The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet:
Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears.
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years;
Anticipation forward points the view;
The mother, wi' her needle and her shears,
Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new;
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due.

Their master's and their mistress' command,
The younkers a' are warned to obey;
And mind their labours wi' an eydent hand,
And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play;
"And O! be sure to fear the Lord alway,
And mind your duty, duly, morn and night;
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray,
Implore His counsel and assisting might:
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright."

But hark! a rap comes gently to the door;
Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same,
Tells how a neibor lad came o'er the moor,
To do some errands, and convoy her hame.
The wily mother sees the conscious flame
Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek;
With heart-struck anxious care, enquires his name,
While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak;
Weel-pleased the mother hears, it's nae wild, worthless rake.

Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben;
A strappin youth, he takes the mother's eye;
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en;
The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye.
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy,
But blate an' laithfu', scarce can weel behave;
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy
What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae grave,
Weel-pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave.

O happy love! where love like this is found:
O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare!
I've paced much this weary, mortal round,
And sage experience bids me this declare, -
"If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare-
One cordial in this melancholy vale,
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair
In other'sarms, breathe out the tender tale,
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale."

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart,
A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth!
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art,
Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth?
Curse on his perjur'd arts! dissembling smooth!
Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd?
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth,
Points to the parents fondling o'er their child?
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild?

But now the supper crowns their simple board,
The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia's food;
The sowp their only hawkie does afford,
That, 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood:
The dame brings forth, in complimental mood,
To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell;
And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it guid:
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell
How t'was a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell.

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face,
They, round the ingle, form a circle wide;
The sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace,
The big ha'bible, ance his father's pride:
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside,
His lyar haffets wearing thin and bare;
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He wales a portion with judicious care;
And "Let us worship God!" he says with solemn air.

They chant their artless notes in simple guise,
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim;
Perhaps Dundee's wild-warbling measures rise;
Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name;
Or noble Elgin beets the heaven-ward flame;
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays:
Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame;
The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise;
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise.

The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
How Abram was the friend of God on high;
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage
With Amalek's ungracious progeny;
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire;
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire;
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme,
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;
How He, who bore in Heaven the second name,
Had not on earth whereon to lay His head:
How His first followers and servants sped;
The precepts sage they wrote to many a land:
How he, who lone in Patmos banished,
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand,
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd by Heaven's command.

Then, kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal King,
The saint, the father, and the husband prays:
Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing,"
That thus they all shall meet in future days,
There, ever bask in uncreated rays,
No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear,
Together hymning their Creator's praise,
In such society, yet still more dear;
While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere

Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride,
In all the pomp of method, and of art;
When men display to congregations wide

Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart!
The Power, incens'd, the pageant will desert,
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;
But haply, in some cottage far apart,
May hear, well-pleas'd, the language of the soul;
And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enroll.

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way;
The youngling cottagers retire to rest:
The parent-pair their secret homage pay,
And proffer up to Heaven the warm request,
That he who stills the raven's clam'rous nest,
And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride,
Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best,
For them and for their little ones provide;
But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside.

From scenes like these, old Scotia's grandeur springs,
That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad:
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,
"An honest man's the noblest work of God;"
And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road,
The cottage leaves the palace far behind;
What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load,
Disguising oft the wretch of human kind,
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd!

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!
For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent,
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil
Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!
And O! may Heaven their simple lives prevent
From luxury's contagion, weak and vile!
Then howe'er crowns and coronets be rent,
A virtuous populace may rise the while,
And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd isle.

O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide,
That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart,
Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride,
Or nobly die, the second glorious part:
(The patriot's God peculiarly thou art,
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!)
O never, never Scotia's realm desert;
But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!